


eat your heart out

by metelo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Injury, Cursed Draco Malfoy, F/M, im not getting a librarian degree during a recession for nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24592843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metelo/pseuds/metelo
Summary: Draco, pallid with blood coating his nose to his chin, was standing in the distance. He stared at the rubble with an empty expression she’d never seen on him, and she wasn’t going to go to him, of course not, she was trying to find Ron and Harry and Luna and all her friends, but when Narcissa draped her arm over Draco’s shoulder, she felt that she had wanted to grab his arm and pull him somewhere else.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 22
Kudos: 160





	1. the silence often of pure innocence

**Author's Note:**

> ( [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2q8cRvDdAdx1m3retz7kqt) )

“Ron, _honestly_ , it’s normal.” Hermione stuffed a strand of loose hair behind her ear, mobile clutched between her chin and shoulder. “Yes - No, I’m not saying Teddy should be snogging anybody, but - I doubt that it’ll cause the Weasley World War or make it to the Weasley Weekly, have you been listening to George? I’ve told you about listening to George. Listen, I have to go to work - yes, I’ll call you later - yes, be safe, love you, good bye.” 

Ten years ago, she couldn’t have possibly imagined herself flushing down a loo, desperately trying to gather her hair into a loose bun. She sometimes missed the old days when she was bright-eyed about magic and its wonderment. Hearing the flap of an owl’s wing against her window, the parchment dropped in front of her modest bedroom next to an illicit packet of biscuits, the torch by her open book. 

Now she bustled shoulder-to-shoulder against the flow of heavy traffic. The obsidian halls of the Ministry of Magic didn’t hold the same regality of Hogwarts. A new fountain was still under construction from where once had been the sculpture of Muggles crushed beneath the prowess of magic, a constant ruckus during her work. Not that she had any opinion of the new fountain, Harry already looking beleaguered in his tiny office, full of drafts and drawings flapping and yelling at him. 

When Hermione pushed open the heavy oak doors to the library, Madame Du’Vour, as always, arched her eyebrows and thin lips behind the solid black desk.

“Madame,” Hermione said, rushed and polite. 

“I’ve been called to a meeting about my retirement,” Madame said, her voice like dried leaves. “I expect you’ll be able to look after the library - appropriately.” She leveled a contemptuous look at Hermione above her silver horn-rimmed glasses. 

“Of course.” Hermione forced out a smile, and pretended her hair wasn’t already falling apart from her bun. She’d met the likes of Madame hundreds of times before in the Ministry. Someone who would slip out ‘Mudblood’ like it was only natural, not something that had been carved into Hermione’s arm. Someone who wasn’t a Death Eater, oh no, but of course, the Death Eaters certainly had _some_ ideas in the right place, not that she was against Muggles, but Muggles should know their place… 

Technically, the Library fell under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The library itself contained enough material to be its own department, but rumor had it that Madame had lived hundreds of years on that floor, and the Department had to be built around her. Hermione had felt the brunt of Madame’s stubbornness head-on, having to tuck documents under her robes to smuggle them out, culminating into a heated argument when Madame found she’d taken files to a crucial centaur case. 

When Madame finally announced her retirement, looking grotesquely weepy about some sort of notoriously pureblood society awarding her accommodations, Hermione had to apply for the role. Certainly, this deputy head librarian position would be a nice stepping stone to become Minister of Magic, but she wasn’t all about politics. Too much information had been locked up for too long, and she had to do something to fix that.

“It’s just because you love books, innit,” Ron had said, sympathetically. She also was passionate about house-elf rights and equitable treatment for Muggles. If she wanted to make real change, knowledge would be a keystone, and if she happened to enjoy reading, so be it. 

The door scraped open and she rose from the chair, her book bag tangled against her ankle, “Madame-”

Draco Malfoy was standing by the door. 

The surprise on his face faded into a gentle sneer, and she was sure her face settled in the same way. He looked like a ghost from the past, dressed in a tailored black suit. She hadn’t seen him for ages, honestly, except for his side-glances on mugshots. Somehow, she was instantly twelve again, bumbling through the hallways of Hogwarts, and Draco Malfoy with all his wealth and snickering goonies behind him was lurking around the corridor to call her a Mudblood. 

“What are you doing here?” she said. “You look terrible.” She hadn’t meant to say the last part, but he did look terrible. Fitting his ghoulish demeanor, his face was pallid and drawn, vague shadows beneath his eyes. She would never call a weasel like him handsome, but she could see how certain people would have otherwise fawned over his looks. Even Ron had admitted once that Draco could have been a looker, if he wasn’t such an arse-licking knob head and a trollop to boot. 

Ron had been quite intoxicated at that pub. 

“I can’t say I’m shocked by your manners,” Draco drawled. His eyes flickered across the black walnut desk. “What are _you_ doing here? I was told Madame Du’Vour would be here.”

“She’s attending a meeting. I’ll be the new Librarian, starting next week.” 

“I wasn’t aware that you were interested in her position.” Draco snorted. “Disappointing.” There it was, that riddled anger from her youth. She did smack him once, at least. That warm thought would just have to do. 

“Are you even supposed to be on the grounds?” 

“What, will you tattle to the Boy-Who-Lived if I’m not? He’s not as interesting as the Man-Who-Lived, just another cog in the wheel.” Draco withdrew a silver coin, the emblematic M winking in and out with the date. “I’m permitted to be here. Special permission, in fact.” 

She had relished, somewhat, in thinking about Harry kicking him out. Harry was the Head of the Department, after all, and could bring Aurors to wrestle Draco out of the building, perhaps elbowing him in the nose accidentally a few times. But she forced a weak smile to her face. 

“How may I help you, then?” 

“I can wait for the Madame.” 

“Of course,” Hermione said, ladening her voice with sweet disgust. “But she might take _hours_ in those pesky Ministry meetings. And I am going to be the new Librarian. If it helps, I won’t even touch the book.” 

Draco wavered. The lines of his face drew still, eyes flickering over the vast library once more. His shoulders dropped for only a moment.

“As long as you don’t touch it,” he said, slipping the silver coin into his breast pocket. “Fine, take me to the section about curses.” 

“Curses?” Her recoil must have been visible. Draco sneered again, a faint line of white teeth showing. 

“Yes, Granger. Curses. Has Potter’s dullness finally rubbed off on you? Those Weasley genetics infecting any kind of wit between your ears?” 

“What type of curses?” The insults rolled off her back, though they used to sting like a thousand pins back in the day. She was aware, painfully, how she still needed to be the smartest in the room, sometimes. This was even after creating committees, dismantling pro-pureblood loopholes, and joining together those smarter than her for her goals. But Draco, just like his mugshots, was only looking away at the end-to-end rows of bookshelves. 

“Just take me to the section and I’ll look for myself. What, are you afraid I’m looking for creative ideas?” 

Even if he was gathering ideas for his latest crime, she couldn’t deny him service. More troubling, though, was that there simply too many tomes about curses scattered throughout the Library. Maybe she really should have waited for the Madame, not driven by her stubbornness. 

Draco finally turned to glare at her, looking sickly and angry. For some reason, she was reminded of Hogwarts again, a hospital wing with white curtains, an assortment of cards, Harry looking sweaty and furious. 

“Oh,” she said. “You’re not looking to curse someone else - you _are_ cursed.” 

She didn’t know why she said that out loud. His eyes widened, his hand fisting violently against his lapels. 

Her hair tumbled in front of her face again. 

\--

Her first thought, when entering the Ministry of Magic’s Library, was that it was beautiful. Gorgeous, unlike the rest of the gloomy hallways. Harry might have needed to stuff himself into a corner office, trying to explain to the Aurors about his stress balls and Muggle staplers, but the Librarian had a whole wing to herself. 

Space had no meaning for the Library. Bookshelves stacked three floors high, the Gothic windows curved at the top to allow the gentle drumming of rain. The black bookshelves themselves had been carved with magical symbols, speckled with glowing stars. Each book had hefty weight. Spines adorned with gold, words shifting and shimmering, pages opening up to beautiful sounds and swirling pictures, twinkling lights hovering above blooming white flowers. The arched ceiling had been painted with portraits of wizards and witches throughout the years, interspersed with ribbed vaults. This was truly the Library, beautiful and nonsensical. 

Nonsensical, because the filing system was rubbish. 

It was pure rubbish, and she had not realized how Madame Du’Vour had somehow filed all the books in such an archaic manner. The influences of Panizzi’s rules faded into some mishmash of the Dewey Decimal System, which had been butchered into some sort of magical adaptation of card cataloguing. Card cataloguing! In the age of magic! Alchemy, tossed into the historic 900s, when living wizards were still practicing that form. Arithmancy, separated from its mathematical 500s counterpart, for no good reason at all. 

“So only looking for curses,” she had concluded, before she got too swept away, “is far too general.” 

Draco, though, had been stubborn and refused to give her more information. Which was why he was sitting on a rococo sofa, leafing through a reference book about curses. She had floated to the top stacks to fetch more references, so he was only a small blip below to her. Up so high, a small tree had grown, wedged between the bookshelves, where she sat down and held the broom in her lap. There simply were too many good books about curses, which frightened her, sometimes. The Dark Arts had been as alluring throughout history, enticing followers and practitioners. 

These weren’t Forbidden Books. The real Forbidden Books snarled behind lock and key, dangerous for their forms. Croney’s Cyurses for the Young had been approved as a circulating material for even children, and she thought of the curses that boiled a person’s feet until they danced to death, those that killed by a thousand cuts, those that left parents in comas to never awaken. 

“Why don’t you go to a hospital?” She dropped the books onto the low table in front of him, still hovering on her broom. “You surely can’t be too good for St. Mungo’s.” 

“Excellent, the bone-curling curse.” Draco flipped the page. “Perhaps I’ll try that on some innocent bystander.”

“You’re incorrigible. I hope you know that.” She returned to Madame’s desk - no, her desk, soon - and settled back into the chair. She had been in the middle of a project, stamping the inside back cover of the newest shipment of books, but she found her eyes wandering to Draco’s steady form. He didn’t lick his fingertips, but he would press his fingers across his mouth and scan the page, his forehead wrinkling in thought, and then flip the page after seconds. He was looking for a curse in particular, and it apparently didn’t start with an A.

“You really can’t take your eyes off me, Granger?” Draco didn’t look up from the book. Her face heated anyway.

“You’re in my library,” she said. “Perhaps you’re being too loud. Have you thought of that?” 

“Wondrous.” Draco flipped another page. “You are correct, St. Mungo’s is beneath me. The Healers came to my luxurious mansion and I sat back and let them heal me from the comforts of my home.” 

She could tell when Hagrid had adopted another magical creature by the shifty look in his eyes, and when Harry hadn’t actually finished his paperwork by the guilty twitch of his mouth. Draco was too sophisticated of a liar to give away those tells, but nobody tried to look up their curse with that much dedication from idle curiosity.

“You’re the loud one here,” Draco said. “Pounding on those books. I’d have thought bookworm Granger would have loved books.”

“Of course I love books,” she said. “It’s important to be able to find books, too. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come in here, unable to find that case file that I truly need. We need clearer stamping sigils that follow that CATS - the Cataloguing Authority of Tome Standards - and better archiving equipment, too. These shelves are lovely, honestly, the flowers blooming at night are beautiful, but we can have humidity control, shielding, all that sort. I’ll be asking Harry for new hires because Madame Du’Vour may have done it alone, but the cataloguing here is rubbish, and we need a constant team-” 

She stopped, embarrassed at how she’d gotten taken away all by herself, and out of breath because this was the point, usually, where Harry and Ron started sipping at their beer a little more guiltily, eyes darting to each other as if daring the other to finally stop her. Even worse, she was rambling to Draco Malfoy, the absolute symbol of a rich boy who’d gotten away with far too much at public school. 

“Choked on your own tongue?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Potter would be a fool not to approve. If the library covers a whole wing, of course you need a dedicated staff for the upkeep.” 

“I’m not the deputy head yet,” she said, “so don’t call Harry a fool, he just needs to look at my proposal - I’m only on page ten-”

“Already nine pages too much. If Potter hadn’t been the chosen one, he might have failed out of school altogether.” 

“Hey,” Harry said, hurt. 

She hadn’t noticed him enter, sheepish with glasses still sliding down the bridge of his nose. Draco closed his book and stood up, vague demeanor flattening into a snobbish contempt. 

“It looks like you’ll be busy.” Draco didn’t quite look at Harry or her, standing at an angle. He toyed with a silver ring on his left hand, twisting it around like a chokehold. “I’ll return tomorrow.” 

He left the library as quietly as he came, throwing back a bit of an awkward glance at them, and then closing the heavy doors behind him. 

“Though he’s right,” Harry admitted. “It’s all right if your proposal is only a page… I reckon we have the budget for that.” 

“Of course we have the budget. I help you manage the budget. And the twenty pages isn’t only for you, it is for posterity.” Hermione swept her hair behind her ear again. “Though, if you must, I’ll give you a summary that will be fewer than five pages.”

“Thank goodness. Are you ready to go to lunch?” 

“Lunch? I just got here.” She swiveled to look at her clock, shocked that midday had already approached. 

“He’s really thrown you off, hasn’t he?” Harry shrugged sympathetically. “I didn’t expect him to head to the Library. Sorry.” Of course, Harry must have had to approve Draco onto the grounds. If she hadn’t been running late, she might have even heard about that scuttlebutt sooner. 

“No, it’s fine. Where do you want to go?” 

“Ron’s back from his mission. We thought we’d nip out for some stoat sandwiches. And maybe you can help me look over some statue prospects,” Harry said, looking hopeful. “There’s one with wings. Does that represent the Ministry? Wings?” 

“Harry, you’ve got to tell me if those wings are attached to a being.” She grabbed her book bag from the floor, pulling the coat from her chair, and doing her best to not think about leaving a tidy stack of curses sitting on the table behind her. 

\--

“Malfoy?” Ron had said, mouth full of sandwich. “Oh, bugger.” 

“He’s not as bad,” Harry had said vaguely, looking deeply uncomfortable. 

She somehow agreed with both those sentiments. Draco was unpleasant, certainly. He’d arrive in his tailored black suit, sneer at her above his permission coin, and then settle onto the sofa. Sometimes he left around lunch, other times he wouldn’t leave until the windows darkened to signal clocking out, and then he’d tidy up after himself by placing the books on the self-returning cart, where they’d fly back to their bookshelves appropriately. 

She’d been hesitant to leave him alone in the Library, but Madame’s retirement had lasted for the full five hours. When she returned, loosening the sparks from her hair, Draco hadn’t appeared to move a bit. He sneered at her, of course, and she said, “Wizarding retirement parties,” which seemed absurd because that was the sort of thing she’d say to Ron or Harry, but even Draco only gave an awkward half-nod. Wizards and witches rarely retired for anything other than death, so parties tended to run long and wild, and Ron sneaking in some prank candies hadn’t helped one whit. 

“You’re busy as ever today,” Draco said into his fist, flipping through to another page. 

“Some of us actually have work to do,” she said. Her three quills continued to scribble frantically on the parchment even as she flipped open the case file. They all stopped to neatly dunk themselves into their respective inkwells, and then returned to frantic scribbling. 

“Is that supposed to be a sting? My phoenix-feathered pillow will be wet with tears.” 

“It’s supposed to be the _truth_. Now that Madame’s out of office, I’ve got to cross-index these past cases and it’s maddening, honestly. Not to mention all the new cases - don’t get me started on the horrible, horrible precedent of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, I’ve only recently pushed through the repeal of the worst of the anti-werewolf writings, but they’re trying to write a new writ about werewolves that is absolutely reprehensible, and there’s been a whole resurfacing of Minster Crouch’s absurd shoehorned acts at the Wizengamot, it’s like we’re running a three ring circus without the rings.” She whipped another scroll onto the table, wanding a fourth and fifth quill to join her gathering. 

“Hm.” Draco flipped a page in his book. 

She’d omitted the part where finding anything would take ages without a proper search spell, which meant finding a proper search spell in the first place. 

“Budgie’s Law,” Draco said. 

“What?”

“Not that I’d expect a Mudblood like you to know,” Draco said, not looking up, “but Budgie’s Fifth Law was dictated and passed through the Wizengamot, about seventy years back, about the rightful trials of wizards and witches. The Third Law defines magical creatures as those with heartbeats, so it’s not terribly up to date, but it does set a precedent.” 

“Budgie,” she said. “With an ‘i-e’?” The Library also had a stepping stool that would take her to the bookshelves, too, and she tapped on the side with her wand. Another fascinating part of the Library was that gravity was not always quite equal in places, so Draco looked upside down to her while she scanned the books closer to the ceiling. _Accio_ was far too basic for this level of complexity, but she’d found another spell that was closer to what she wanted - as long as Madame had even bothered to try to follow CATS, then - of course, the blue leather cover should have told her everything. She didn’t know how much time passed on the ceiling, leafing through book after book. 

“‘Mione!” Ron was calling her from below. Three taps of the stepstool and she returned to the seat by the door, arm full of law books. 

“Sorry,” she said. “Is it time for lunch?”

“Lunch? It’s time to go home. Did you skip lunch again?” Ron shook his head, disapproving. “You’re missing out on one of the most important meals of the day, right after second-lunch and third-lunch.” 

“Oh,” she said. A glance at the sofas showed that Draco had long since left the Library. 

“Was he here again?” Ron sniffed the air. 

“Yes, for a bit.”

“Sorry you have to deal with him,” Ron said. “I don’t care what Harry says, he’s still a rat-faced idiot in my mind. He’s lucky he wasn’t tried as a war criminal.” 

“Of course he wasn’t tried. He was still a minor, we had far more criminals to prosecute than someone like him.” She slung the book bag over her shoulder and thought of Draco, briefly, back at Hogwarts. Sometimes her life felt like arguing at the Wizengamot and jamming into a pleather red booth with Harry and Ron by her side, watching Ron trying to devour a kabob on the way back, the way the brick shop captured the shadow from the full moon. 

And sometimes the cobblestones would turn back into the flat stones of Hogwarts, the Gothic architecture looming before her and the soot and blood everywhere. The grief felt too real, a lump in her throat. She’d slipped on a slither of gravel, a girl was wailing beyond the walls. Draco, pallid with blood coating his nose to his chin, was standing in the distance. He stared at the rubble with an empty expression she’d never seen on him, and she wasn’t going to go to him, of course not, she was trying to find Ron and Harry and Luna and all her friends, but when Narcissa draped her arm over Draco’s shoulder, she felt that she had wanted to grab his arm and pull him somewhere else. 

\--

“Ron, fine, I will talk to her - but just so you know, I do think Teddy has the right to privacy, and I can’t say I approve of any of this -” She startled when the library door opened, but relaxed when she saw it was only Draco. “All right. Ron, yes, but I have to go, I have a patron. Yes. Love you, bye.” She slipped the mobile phone away from her. 

She wasn’t anybody’s mother, so she wasn’t going to say something absurd like ‘you’re late’ to Draco. But even she could tell he was late. He had dark shadows under his eyes and fidgeted with the silver ring on his ring finger even more. 

“What is that?” He eyed her phone distastefully. 

“A mobile phone,” she said. “It’s a Muggle device, so you don’t have to touch it.” 

He sneered, but he didn’t retreat back to his sofa. Instead, he picked up her phone between two fingers, regarding it like someone would a piece of garbage. 

“You were talking to Weasley on the other end. I thought there was interference for anything - elektronic,” he said laboriously.

“Which,” she said, “I suspect the Ministry had something to do about that. Honestly, if you modify the transmissions, you can use it more like a radio, and really, I can only call Harry and Ron. And Ron only really learned because his father was so interested, but it’s far faster than sending an owl every time he goes on a mission and wants to chat.” 

“It looks disgusting,” Draco said. “How do you use that - _thing_?” 

“It’s a useful _thing_ ,” she said, “because you can just have an app for spells and a Latin dictionary. Instead of having to call up some age-old knowledge, you can just pull it up with a click.” 

“An appetiser,” Draco said slowly. 

“An application. Here, I didn’t build it.” She clicked open the Wizardmore app. “Though I find the Latin dictionary immensely helpful, really. It’s an interesting thought, too. Even I hadn’t thought much of it, but other countries must use other languages for spells. Mahoutokoro, certainly, from what I could tell at the Quidditch World Cup.” 

“You should have become a spell etymologist, Granger.” Draco scrolled with his pointer finger, wrinkling his nose. “Though any self-sufficing wizard would have known about spell language theory. It’s been long speculated by scholars, far smarter than you, that an unknown and archaic language lends itself better to spelling.”

“I am a self-sufficing _witch_ , thank you very much. The problem with that horrible theory is that wizarding history is surprisingly robust, so it’s well-documented that magic existed with British Latin.” 

“Of course, it’s just like you to dismiss years of wizarding research since it doesn’t suit your pithy needs. So stuck with your _Muggle_ ways, clinging onto your _Muggle_ past as if that shines a light on our poor, barbaric wizarding society.” He tapped her phone screen with his blunt nail with a sneer. “Ignoring, of course, Juvenus’s recent publication that magic may have _existed_ , but it was far _weaker_ than it is now.”

“Oh, Juvenus’s recent publication in the British Archives of Telegnosis Studies, otherwise known as Pureblood Weakly? Honestly, Malfoy, aren’t you the one stuck in the past? Everybody knows Juvenus has absolutely no leg to stand upon - and that counts his third leg, too - when in _fact_ , that theory has been disproven by both Bacchus and Zhang, especially because we can’t cast magic using only English.”

“So you’re disregarding Juvenus’s Muggle-minded third head, too? How close-minded and expected of you. The sheer existence of wandless and wordless magic is proof enough of that possibility, and in fact, having read that article in Writative Animism of National Documents, the witch admitted about the absence of childhood wizardry studies.” 

“Erm, excuse me.” A young witch tapped on the open library door, her hat pulled over her ears. Hermione turned back to Draco in time to see his hand spasm. He nearly dropped her phone, but grasped the silver device to his dark green vest. He looked down at his own hand as if it was a mysterious entity, and then shoved the phone back onto her desk. 

“Am I interrupting?” the witch inquired softly. Her silver twintails swung rhythmically as she began her sheepish approach. Draco had retreated to a further sofa, grabbing the books that she’d already put out for him the night before. 

“No, of course not. Sofia, wasn’t it? Let’s get you started…” 

At her retirement ceremony, Madame had finally surrendered the Library keys to Harry. Of course not to Hermione, who had stood there with a plate full of confetti-covered cake and thinking about how Madame surely would be soaking up some of her tears with an unnecessarily thick pension. It’d taken some digging, but she had solved almost half of the ring of keys in their locations. With Sofia working at the desk, shuffling around the books with codifying charms, she’d managed to discover the location of another two keys - the winged one into a carved lock of hair, the snarled key into a tree trunk - before the windows clouded over to signify another end of workday. 

The Library at night really was quite beautiful. Some of the book spines glowed and small lights, like fireflies, floated amidst the smooth trunks of the gnarled trees. The magic rain washed against the windows up above. She was picking up her book bag when she realised, suddenly, that she hadn’t seen Draco leave. 

“Malfoy,” she said. She could see him on the sofa, and approached him with caution. Not that she was frightened, of course, but she slipped a fist over her wand and inched closer to where his hand had been pressed into an open book. 

She didn’t want to touch him, but she didn’t know why she sat across from him instead.

The great and amazing bouncing ferret was sitting in front of her. Smarmy as always, terrible in attitude. If Harry and Ron hadn’t been her best friends, then the likes of Malfoy would still have terrorized her throughout those years at Hogwarts. She was searching his face when she realised she’d been searching for hatred to well up inside her, finding nothing instead. 

It was just because he was sleeping, she reasoned. When he slept, he looked like a vapid model of some pureblood gazette. His pale hair had been swept back, revealing the structure of his face for all sharp angles and bones, lined with a weak and unhappy mouth. His thin fingers were dropping from the edge of the book, which had partially closed in his lap. He was that terrible, horrid force in her childhood. But when she watched him sleep, she only thought he looked like a stranger. 

When he stirred, she leapt to her feet. 

“Malfoy,” she said, loudly. 

He propped an elbow against the wooden arm of the sofa, digging his wrist against his eye. 

“What?” he said raspily, voice hoarse. 

“We’re closed. Leave it,” she added, when he began to tidy the books, “I’ll clean it tomorrow morning. Come on, it’s already late.” 

“I thought Weasley usually came to fetch you,” Draco said, rising from the seat. The lights dimmed as they made their way to the exit, Hermione holding the door open for him. She still hadn’t quite gotten used to the smell of books, such a heavy and whispery scent, that filled the Library. In comparison, the Ministry smelled clean and empty. 

“He works a half-day at the shop,” she said. “I usually work late, anyway.” 

“Little miss goody Granger,” Draco drawled. “Always working hard to right all the wrongs in the world.”

“How is it that you can make that sound like a bad thing? No, never mind, I already know the answer.” 

“My father,” Draco began, though he stopped. Curious, she peered at him, but this late, the Ministry’s sconces only flickered on when they passed. All she could see were the shadows on his face.

“My father,” he repeated deliberately, “always did say that Gryffindors were glory-hounds. Basking in either the approval of others or martyring themselves on their self-righteous deeds. Truly disgusting.”

“Disgusting? To defend _basic_ rights. Honestly.” She shook her head. 

“There we go, the self-righteousness appears again. ‘Honestly,’ I can’t imagine ever sacrificing myself in order to save someone else. That’s just flawed, stupid thinking.” 

“I can’t possibly imagine how self-centered a person must be to not understand altruism. And yes, _honestly_ , I can’t imagine ever being so selfish and self-serving.” She stopped only since they had reached the fireplaces. Draco stepped aside to allow her to enter the nearest one, the flumes rising to her ears with a familiar feeling like she was floating into the distance, only to be dropped into the lavatory. If she was ever Minister of Magic, she’d certainly change the transportation method first. No, centaur rights were certainly still troubling. Of course, house-elves still had a long way to go…

The night air hit her face like a splash of cold water. Draco stood beneath the street lamp, the light dispersing over his fine hair. 

“You waited,” she said, surprised. She bit her cheek to hold back a laugh when she spotted a slight tinge in Draco’s cheeks. Unnerving Draco Malfoy was a spectacular feeling. 

“It’s traditional good manners,” he sneered, “but I wouldn’t expect your Neanderthal friends or yourself to understand anything like that.” 

The usual Apparating hidden nook was down the street, far enough to dissuade a knot of harried wizards trying to hurry home. Her low heels clicked on the sidewalk. Streetlamps shone through thin leaves, the windows of the buildings lighted in symmetric rows. 

“I’m this way,” she said, pointing around the corner. 

“You live with the Muggles?” Draco’s nose wrinkled. 

“I live in a flat,” she said. “There is a difference.” 

“Trust me, I have no curiosity about your hovel.” He ducked to head into the nook, leaving without a good-bye. The last dregs of the summer night had finally fallen to the autumnal crispness in the air. The next street over, a drunken song had started up in spurts, sounding like a lost sea chanty. 

“Malfoy,” she called after him. “If you tell me about the curse, then I can actually help you.” 

He turned partially, his eyes sallow and distrusting. 

“You can’t save everyone, Granger.” 

“Please don’t act like I’m doing this out of _care_. It’s intellectual curiosity. And honestly, if it’s just a nasty rash, then you wouldn’t need to come to the Ministry’s Library.” The wind picked up, tugging tendrils of her hair free to whip across her face. She stood with her feet steady on the ground, weight even, square beneath her. 

“I can’t imagine being a person who is so accomplished,” Draco said, “and still be so driven to need to prove themselves _right._ ”

She gritted her teeth, jaw clenched tight. Draco was regarding her like she’d expect a wild wolf with bright eyes would stare at her in the wilderness, where she was the interloper trespassing on his territory. But she had made a living from being an outsider. Draco Malfoy, standing in the darkness with his dark, haunted eyes, didn’t scare her. He wasn't a predator. He was wounded, trying to pretend that he wasn't bleeding out, arrogance masking pain. She wasn't afraid of that. 

“A snake,” he said, with a false airiness. “I’m looking for a curse about a snake.” 

“What-” She barely got out a syllable before he disappeared with a loud crack, Apparating to somewhere she couldn’t reach.


	2. innocence for innocence

Most mornings, she’d find time to slip away to sip a cup of tea in Harry’s office. They’d close the door behind them, Ron lounging in the second chair while Harry fiddled with his flying keys, catching and releasing them, with a nostalgia for being a Seeker, she suspected. Ron would show off George’s newest toy, like the Screaming Yo-Yo or the Bang Bang Boggart Banger, and Harry would lean in with far too much interest for someone running an entire department. 

And other mornings, she was knee-deep in muddy water, responding to the department’s call of all wands-on-deck. 

“At least it was only a Muggle girl who died,” someone said, and she spun around so fast that the water droplets splattered onto the rubble. 

“Who said that?” she demanded from the gaggle of new Aurors. She wasn’t much of a sight, drenched in water with her robes bedraggled, but the new hires still withdrew from her. She tried to look into their eyes, even those who avoided her gaze, but they had all fallen silent. 

“‘Mione,” Ron said. “We need you here.” 

She threw one last angry look at the small crowd, and then with as much dignity as she could muster, pulled herself away through the thick water. Ron had wrestled himself onto the shore, though he’d sat down on a sunken bench. She had to squat to sit beside him. The sunlight caught and sparkled onto the water, as if the sky had tossed shards of diamonds into the water. In the distance, an Auror was leading numb Muggles into an adjacent building. Harry himself was trying to magic webbing for the Kelpies that stood beside the telephone booth, their sleek oily manes still dripping down in thick globules. 

“Gas leak, right?” Ron said, dangling his wand from his wrist. 

“I think underground water should be better,” she said. “Have we assigned a group to start rebuilding?” The street had been a line of small shops, the kind with quaint cafes and an M&S on the corner, transformed into blunt teeth of earth, staggered and yawning, granite jagging from the water. From where they sat, the spire of a cathedral peeked over the buildings, cutting into the horizon’s light. 

“I’m going to quit being an Auror,” Ron said. 

“What?” She spun around, squeaking against the iron slats of the bench. Ron hung his head, still wrapping his fingers around his wand. 

“George has been asking me to stick around the shop,” Ron said. “He won’t come out and say it - that’s not George, really - but they could use s’more help. Everybody says it’s a good idea.” 

“Is it because of last year? I know it’s been hard on you, Ron, honestly, and it’s been hard on Harry, too, but you’ve been doing some real good in the world.” 

Most mornings were watching Harry and Ron whisper about their latest invention or talking about last night’s Quidditch games. Last year’s mornings were mostly dedicated to Ron’s case, a wizard who had run amuck in the Muggle world, becoming bolder and bolder with every move. Melted bones, candled skin, a dismembered corpse in a basement. Ron had caught him in the end, a former Death Eater who had escaped the round of prosecutions after the War, but he’d been smiling less in the office since discovering the last little boy in the basement.

“It’s not that,” Ron said stubbornly. “It’s just what I wanted to do for a while.” 

“Have you talked to Harry about it?” 

“Not yet. That conversation will be brill.” 

“He’ll understand,” she said, optimistically. “He knows it’s family first.” 

“So you’re not mad?” 

“Mad?” An undine shrieked from the corner, a distant wail. “Why would I be mad?”

“Dunno.” Ron had rested his elbows onto his knees, his entire body sagging under an invisible weight. “You’re so driven. Guess I always thought you were disappointed in me.”

“Ron Bilius Weasley, please. I’ve never been disappointed in you.” 

“Yeah. I know. ‘Snot what I really meant.” Ron’s mouth spasmed into a half-smile. “Thing is, though, you’re driven. You’re going places, you’re good at loads of stuff, you’ve got to fix everything, and, y’know, I’ve just been thinking I like working on Headless Hats. Tinkering with my hands, sweeping up the floor. Closing for the day with a bang. We just want different things and, I dunno, I don’t see myself being an Auror twenty years from now. And if I work at the shop long enough, maybe George will finally give me a discount.” 

“I’d be impressed. George won’t give me a discount, either.” She fiddled with her hands, the dirt in small crescents under her nails. “I suspect Tom already knew. Approves of you leaving everything behind.”

“Yeah. But don’t say it like that, c’mon.”

“Right. Sorry.” She managed to pinch her finger red. “I’m not disappointed in you. I mean it. I want you to be happy, and you know that.”

“You’re my best friend in the whole world. You and Harry. This just - isn’t what I want.” 

“I understand, Ron. Truly, I do.” 

Hermione Granger was a liar. She was still drying off her hair when she entered the Library and collapsed into her comfortable chair. Ron had characterised her all wrong, she thought, though she wasn’t going to correct him and sound like a know-it-all in the middle of a small disaster. It wasn’t like she had to fix  _ everything _ by herself. She’d left the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in good hands, trusting the newest house-elf on the committee to take over most of the projects she had started. 

And she had many things where she needed improvement. She’d never bothered to learn any more about divination, which was still absolute rubbish to her, and summoning a Patronus was still difficult. The latter, though, would be worth improving. She spun in her chair to summon a book about Patronuses, and one about fairy tales regarding Patronuses, since they often had some wise knowledge embedded within them. 

From The Tales of Beedle the Bard, the one she’d inherited from Dumbledore, she actually quite liked ‘The Fountain of Fair Fortune.’ The story itself was quaint, about witches who seeked good fortune from a magical fountain. Along the way, they offered proof of their pain, fruits of their labour, treasures of their past, and though the fountain had simply been an ordinary fountain, they found happiness had been within them all along. She had a touch of romance inside her and found the tale quite endearing. 

“Are you reading a book for children?” Draco’s voice, lilting with a faint sneer, floated above her. She looked up, startled, to see him with a book under his arm. 

“Have you been here the whole time?” She straightened up, alarmed. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Why would I wait for you?” Draco dropped into the seat across from the wide desk, arranging himself with his ankle resting on his knee. “If you must pry, then I was paying my respects at the cemetery this morning and arrived only a few hours ago. I see you haven’t cleaned up, after all.”

“I had a case this morning,” she said defensively. 

“Former Dementors from Azkaban? Though I hear the new guards can be equally as torturous.” 

“What? No, undines. Oh.” She realised she had her book about Patronuses facing outward and flushed. “No, that’s just - other research. Sorry, I haven’t had the time to look up about snake curses. Though, really, that’s still a wide category, I hope you know that.” 

“No, Granger, that was a mystery to me.” Draco picked up the book in front of him, leafing through it. “Don’t you already know how to summon a Patronus? It’s infamous that Potter’s Patronus is some sort of wild pig.”

“It is not, and you know that. By the way, isn’t yours a ferret?” 

“What was it? ‘Wit beyond measure is a Muggle’s greatest leisure.’” Draco indifferently halted at a page, eyes absently scanning the top. “Though if you must be so  _ nosey _ , then you know that most Death Eaters avoid that spell. The unworthy and impure will get eaten by maggots.” 

“Wasn’t that just a myth?”

“Well,” Draco said. “If you need something to gloat, then I suppose I’ll admit I’m not able to summon one, and a Healer diagnosed me as decidedly not eaten by maggots.”

“Perhaps you’ve never been taught properly.” She rose from her chair. “I did see this fascinating diagram about summoning Patronuses, perhaps you could find some use from it.”

“You truly do look awful, Granger,” Draco said, “like you always do, but worse. Shouldn’t you stop your incessant dithering and rest?” 

“I don’t need your concern and I don’t want to rest,” she said hotly. Her bones ached from the long day of stooping and bending, dragging pieces of rock out of the water far enough to reconstruct the street. Harry had taken care of the Muggle girl who had died in the crossfire, but she didn’t want to sit around with her eyes closed and imagine the blank look of the Obliviated Muggles or the undines’ gargled cries of pain when the Aurors ushered them back to the ocean. Because Ron wasn’t the only one to work that case last year, where if she somehow had dreams that she was the wizard who was flaying and killing and chopping with sickening little snippets. 

“Inspiring,” Draco said, placing his hands on the width of her desk and standing up. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I can’t say I’m not curious about the Patronus spell,” Draco said, arching an eyebrow, “not that I have any great-”

“No, shut your hideous mouth, what are you doing?” She grabbed his arm, pulling his open palm towards her. Her habit had been to open her mail with a knife, which she’d carelessly placed near her mail tray. Draco had planted his hand directly on the tip, which she’d forgotten to sheathe. 

His fingers were paler than she’d expected and cold to the touch. The knife had slit deep into his finger, breaking skin and nearly to the bone. But even as she watched, only a thin swelling of blood began to trickle out of the cut, bubbling like a weak fountain rather than a spurt.

“You didn’t feel it,” she said. 

Draco yanked his hand back, his features finally settling into a mask of bridled rage. 

“Don’t touch me,” he said, indignation punctuating his breath. “Not with your dirty,  _ filthy _ hands.”

“Like I said, shut up, Malfoy.” Hermione began to pace behind her desk. “You didn’t feel it - you’re losing circulation to your hands. You almost dropped my mobile, your condition is deteriorating. Yes. Yes, this has to do with your curse, doesn’t it? You have to tell me what it is, we’re not looking fast enough. That’s exponential growth. Is there lasting damage? We have to do our research.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” He averted his gaze, cradling his hand to his chest. 

“You  _ will _ tell me.”

“I shan’t,” he sneered. 

“Of course you shall. And if you want to know why you will, it is because I am the deputy head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I have access to the most secret books of history, I will find out eventually, even if it is, literally, over your dead body, I have repealed more laws than you could ever name, and if you do  _ not _ tell me, then I will not hesitate to call your mother.” 

Draco stared at her. His mouth twitched into something like a grimace. She realised, with a shock, that he was holding back a smile. Truly, he was terrible at smiling, and for some reason, that made her smile, too. 

\--

They had survived the Second Wizarding War. It sounded strange to phrase it like that, when it really felt like a whir of trying to cling onto all she loved. She knew Harry and Ron had dreams about it. After Fred’s funeral, Ron would toss in their bed and eventually rise up in the early winks of the morning. 

Harry never said much about it. That was Harry, stoic as always. He’d been angry for a long while, but fortunately, Ginny had helped him through the worst of it. The reporters eventually stopped flooding to his doorstep. Draco was right. The Man-Who-Lived simply wasn’t as interesting. The biggest thing, though, was that she suspected Harry secretly had harbored a yearning to become a teacher at Hogwarts. Even though he didn’t have Hagrid’s touch, she thought even a gamekeeper would have appealed to him. But sometimes, when they went to have lunch with Hagrid on the grounds, she would catch Harry looking wistfully at the buttresses with a sort of terrible distance, and she understood. History was written by the victors. They had become chapters in  _ Hogwarts: A History _ .

She also had terrible nightmares from her torture at the hands of Bellatrix. The phantom pains wracked her at night, the desperation in her mouth, the grey walls and a shrieking laughter ringing in her ears. She dreamt of Harry dead on the field, Ron dying in her arms. Strangely, though, what haunted her waking days was mostly when she Obliviated her parents. She could still remember stepping into the carpeted room, the telly airing the news. The red kettle had been on, which meant tea would be ready soon. Since then, she had cast the spell time and time again on Muggles, but it discomforted her to remember her parents’ blank eyes. That was why she had ultimately decided on living in a Muggle flat, though she had the ample means to afford a wizarding house. 

“My mother gave me the knife for my birthday last year,” she explained, setting down a cup of tea in front of Draco. “It was my grandfather’s, who’d been through the War - the Muggle Second World War.”

“At least it’s sharp.” Draco sniffed the tea with suspicion. 

“I didn’t poison your tea,” she said, “and certainly not with indiscernible arsenic. Now, tell me about your curse.” 

A quick  _ Episkey  _ spell had healed the wound, though Draco still bent the joint of his finger back and forth. His eyes trailed along the dark gray pattern of the carpet. 

“At midnight,” Draco said slowly, “a snake is conjured inside me. It’s small, black, and sometimes breaks the skin, but it mostly targets around my heart. It’s not particularly painful, but I did notice, as you said, that things have been getting - worse.” 

“Is it in you now? I know some X-ray spells. I mean, spells that could see your bones.” Her parents were dentists, after all. She had also thought about dentist wizardry throughout the years. 

“No, it disappears quickly and everything heals. The Healers called it a kind curse, which was the worst to dispel.”

“Bugger,” she murmured. Kind curses weren’t too studied, but she’d seen one or two. Even if the curse could be lifted with a simple  _ Reverso  _ or  _ Surgito,  _ they risked removing the “kind” part of the curse, with a secondary curse resisting the charm. If the Healers had tried to lift the spell and done it wrong, they’d take away the part that healed and not the part that hurt. 

“It’s merely annoying.” Draco bent his finger around the teacup methodically. “But it is an annoyance, nevertheless. If I could figure out the curse, and whether there’s a curse rebound, it would make matters much easier. But it has proven illusive.”

“Did you look it up in Wyrmwood’s Curse Dictionary?”

“No, Granger, I did not look it up in the most basic curse dictionary to wizardkind. How absolutely brilliant of you.”

“If you’re so intelligent, then you must have already gone through the Curse Assessment of Peculiar Entities. How did you get cursed?” 

“My father does have artifacts that could be cursed. Though he and my mother are summering in our cottages, so I can’t ask him.” Draco pushed back against the sofa. “I won’t go through the full twenty-six categories, but the short notes is that it seems older in origin and it’s one of those droll curses that might rebound to the spellcaster.”

“Do you know who it could have been?” Her eyes flew open. “It wasn’t Harry, if that’s why you're coming here.”

“Right, I thought it was Potter, so I wanted to nip into his work for several days in the row.” Draco sneered. “No, though it might surprise you, I’m not particularly beloved anymore. Anybody passing in the crowd could have done this. Better to focus on the symptoms, no use dallying about the origins.”

He seemed furtive, somehow. Coiled and ready to lash. Something seemed strange, though she didn’t linger on the feeling.

“I’m sure we do have a book about that curse,” she said, “but the problem is finding it. And it’s far too dangerous to bumble around to locate it.”

The Library had fantastic rooms, but also fantastic dangers. Her newest hire, Arthur, had to be sent home for the day when he’d opened a book that had an eye-scorching curse. Her set of keys had taken her into rooms frozen in crystalline ice, where if she’d open the pages, the books would set themselves on fire. Another room kept all the shelves behind cages, where the books snapped their covers open and shut into yawning abysses. Yet another was covered in a type of mist, the books tar-like to the touch.

“I know that much,” Draco said. “I wasn’t expecting to read every book in the Library.”

“Of course not. That would be silly,” said Hermione Granger, who expected herself to read every book in the Library. “But the  _ Accio _ spell is far too simple for this sort of intricacy.” 

_ Accio _ was brilliant when she was lying down on her couch and wanted the remote. However, it could not summon a book with strings of certain words. Even the more detailed search spells would simply take ages to look through each book, and the Ministry had many books. 

“We need a key book,” she said suddenly.

“Right,” Draco said. “You’ve gone off the deep end. Condolences, Granger.” 

“Thank you, please do let me know about the weather up your own arse.” She sipped her cup of tea, mind darting to the possibilities. “Listen, we can’t search every single book for every single word, but we can search the title and the author, the table of context or the index if they’ve got one. But what we need to do is narrow down that search by  _ anything _ . Time period that spell would have been invented, if a society specialised itself with snake curses. That sort of thing. And to get that, we need a key book, something that would tell us that in general, a catalogue.”

“That’s far-fetched.” But something about Draco’s tone seemed strange, distracted. She turned on him with all her intensity, pushing forward from the sofa. 

“What is it?” She searched his uneager eyes. 

“It’s nothing.” Draco dropped his fist against his mouth. “Are you doing anything next Tuesday?”

“Tuesday? I’m going to a Quidditch game with Harry and Ginny.”

“Cancel that, then. Wyrmwood’s estate is hosting a musical event. At the end of it, they’re holding a silent auction on some of their books. I didn’t think anything of it, since his research rarely has any depth, but if there’s a sort of reference there, I suppose, then you’ll have a better go at it.” Draco shrugged, indifferent. “If you want.” 

“I hadn’t heard about that sort of sale.” She would have attended ages if she had known, fingers already itching to get her hands on some older books. The Library did have a purely archival section, too, so she wouldn’t have refused any book-related artifacts. 

“It’s an old society sort of thing,” Draco said. “We’ll meet in the afternoon and I’ll make sure you’re actually suitable.”

“Oh, sod off,” she said. “I’m not mannerless, you know.” 

“Aren’t you friends with Hagrid?” Draco eyed her. “That brute who almost killed me with his beast? Not exactly a role model, and you don’t have anybody proper wizard to actually teach you these things.” 

“Leave Hagrid out of this. You brought that on yourself, and you’ve got a lot of nerve when you almost killed Buckbeak,” she said hotly. She expected a larger whiplash, or at least surprise of Buckbeak’s survival, but Draco only looked at her, and then at the wallpaper of the Library. 

“The tea’s cold,” he said. 

As expected, Ron didn’t come to pick her up when the Library closed. Draco waited for her outside the lavatories again, and they walked silently down the street. 

“Winter’s coming,” she said. “I do enjoy the season.” 

“Happy memories of spending the holidays with the Weasleys? Crammed into that tiny, poor house?”

“Apologies, Malfoy, couldn’t hear you over your lack of basic human decency.” She shrugged her book bag closer to herself. “I’m thinking about spending them with my parents. I don’t call them as often as I should, really. They’re busy with their dentistry practise.” 

“Happily, I assume.”

“Yes, quite. My father even won an award.”

“Best teeth? Best cleaning teeth? Shiniest veneers? Most candid canines?”

“The Matt Holmes Certificate of Merit from the BDA.”

“Congratulations to your father.” He slowed in front of the Apparating nook. “Then, I go this way. Good night, Granger.” 

“‘Night.” She watched him disappear with the same crack. It wasn’t that she’d been afraid of his name-calling, but she had expected him to drop something or other about her blood. Something insulting, something about blood traitors or how Muggles were small and mundane, looking for an opening to insult her. 

As she began to head back to her flat, she wondered if he’d just been trying to talk to her.

\--

“I can’t believe it,” Ron said. “You’re not going to the highly-anticipated match of the year, with Ginny’s  _ ringside seats _ , because you’re going to some book shook with Malfoy?”

“I’m not going with Malfoy in that sense,” she said. “Are you going to keep this, Ron? It smells something awful.” She held up a bundle of socks. At Ron’s shake of the head, she dropped them into the bin. They were trying to clean out his desk, bundles of wadded up paper bats, chipped ceramic dishes, knitted potholders from Molly, an antiquated gift pen from Percy stuck inside a wad of gooey tissues. Harry was also helping in the best way he could, which was being distracted by Ron’s small wizard chess set. 

“Give it up, Harry,” she said, leafing through some documents. “I’ve never won a match against Ron. Oh, honestly, you needed to sign this years ago…”

“The kids will miss you,” Harry said, urging forward his bishop. “Luna and Rolf said they’d try to come with Lorcan and Lysander, too.”

“Really? Merlin’s pants,” she said. “Haven’t seen the twins in ages.” And the last time they had, Luna had been quite distracting with her turnip dress.

“Then skip the Malfoy show and come along with us,” Ron urged. “Albus has been going mental over some boy at school, you should see how James teases him to no end.” 

“Honestly, I’d go with you if I could. Give my regards to the kids, won’t you?”

“I still don’t know why you’re helping Malfoy. He’s not, y’know, evil, but he’s a bit evil.” Ron pushed some scrolls towards the bin, which she had to rescue with a strong glare. 

“Just because you don’t file your reports doesn’t mean nobody does,” she said. “Not that I’m asking for a vote, but what about you?” Harry’s bishop had been taken handily, and he looked up guiltily at their conversation.

“Oh, you know,” Harry said. 

“No, I do not.”

“Mafoy’s just Malfoy.” Harry ducked his head again.

“Really. Because everything Ron’s just said makes sense,” she said. “Malfoy hexed me, almost got Hagrid sacked, almost killed  _ you _ . But here you are, playing wizard chess instead of telling me that I shouldn’t be anywhere near him.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I wouldn’t go to Malfoy’s thing. Sounds stuffy.”

“She’s right, y’know,” Ron said to Harry. “You’ve been awfully quiet about Malfoy.” 

“Listen,” Harry said, “it wasn’t my idea, and I didn’t say anything about it because it was weird, and Ginny was expecting, it was really busy, but it was after he’d gotten married, he came over and just. Talked to me.” 

“Malfoy’s married?” Hermione asked at the same time Ron asked, “Somebody voluntarily married  _ him _ ?”

“Aster something. Greenwood?” Harry looked dubious at his row of fallen pawns. 

“Astoria Greengrass?” Ron said. “No, I’ve heard Mum talk about her. She’s one of the pureblood families, isn’t she? Caused a bit of a scandal because she’s, y’know, Muggle-friendly, but her family isn’t.”

That did explain the silver ring around Draco’s finger. If Draco was married, though, then she would have assumed Astoria would have recognised the curse. Even if Astoria’s main career was being a socialite, she probably would have concerns that her husband was spending his days in a library. Unless, of course, they’d gotten married for only appearances. 

“Did he talk about her, then? Asking you for marriage advice?” she asked.

“I mean, not really. He asked how things were going, how you two had been getting on. It was awkward, all right? It was Malfoy, it was like he didn’t want to be there, either. But sometimes he just comes and talks to me, and I dunno.”

“Maybe he’s got sneaky business at the Ministry,” Ron said. “He’s using you as an excuse to be nefarious.”

“I thought so too, but he honestly just. Sits and talks and leaves.” Harry shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like him, but I’m not going to kick him out for being a twat.” 

“No, I think those are grounds for permanently banning someone,” Ron said. “We could probably throw him for jail, if we get ‘Mione on the line.”

“I am sorry that you won’t be able to make it,” Harry told her. “It’s your birthday, after all. I wouldn’t want to spend mine with Malfoy.”

“I’ll call if I can make it later,” she said, “but honestly, I don’t mind. We’ll go on another date, all right? Maybe just the three of us again.” 

When she arrived back at the Library, she summoned the more recent news about Astoria Greengrass. Nothing much more was said about her. An old family tree, showing that she had a sister. An announcement of her fortuitous marriage to Draco Malfoy, and a marriage picture of Draco standing stiffly beside her, a woman with dark eyes and somber mouth. Hints of how she was friendly to Muggles and less to the Pureblood mantra, but the newspapers were discreet about their insinuations. The Daily Prophet had no such qualms, announcing her mysterious disappearance. 

She put down the paper and rested her chin on her fist. She could feel herself thinking, but she didn’t know what she was thinking. 

\--

“It’s better to eat first,” Draco had told her, “since it’s not a dinner party. There’ll be food, but nothing substantial.” Which was why, come Tuesday midday, Hermione was roaming down Woodbine Way, a cheery street that had less of the blackened and gray brick and more wide displays, beiges and creams. Whangham’s was apparently the name of a restaurant, and when she ducked inside to the cool blue walls and oil paintings that looked like they had been stolen from a museum, she wasn’t shocked to see that Draco was already seated in the corner.

“Good,” he said, rising when she approached the white-clothed table. “You didn’t bother to dress up.”

“These  _ are _ my good dress robes.”

“Really? You look like you’re ready to argue your case in court.” 

They were also her legal dress robes, but she didn’t say as much to him. 

“Pick anything you want,” Draco said idly, waving to the menu. “I haven’t got much of an appetite.” The menu floated into her hand, the script intricate and sprawling. The painting above them, a stern-faced man with a noble white horse, eyed them with disdain. 

“I don’t usually eat out to these places,” she admitted. “Do they have anything that’s not meat?”

They did, apparently, roasted beetroot with buttered greens, dauphinoise potatoes, goat’s cheese added with the lentils, celeriac puree with a dash of heavy black pepper, dessert from rhubarb and apple crumble, a white wine of Chateau Laulerie Bergerac. By the time Draco had finished ordering, she already felt full. 

“I’ve responded to the estate’s invitation,” Draco said. “You’re included as my guest. We’ll take the carriage, of course, but as long as you don’t do anything too brutish, we should make it through.” He tidied his silverware with an absent-minded force, straightening the fork, the tinier fork, and then the spoon, and then the long spoon. 

“I would take all this more kindly if you treated me like a person,” she said. 

“Please do take my previous sentiments insults, but I’m merely warning you that it’s old society.” Draco heaved a sigh. “My mother and I once attended a midday tea that lasted twelve hours. The butler passed out at the sixth hour, the maid at the eighth.”

“Your parents must not be happy that you’re going with me. If they know.” She quieted when the salad appeared in front of them. 

“As I mentioned, my parents are somewhere else. They don’t know anything about this.” Draco straightened his small army of forks. 

“I mean, you said they were summering. It’s autumn now.” She took a bite of her salad. The crisp greens let out a torrent of flavour, and she put her finger to her mouth in surprise. Draco rested his finger on the long handle of a spoon.

“They’ve been summering for two years,” Draco said. “Can’t say I’m expecting them back.”

“Oh.” Her fork clinked against the ceramic bowl. 

“My father hasn’t been well.” Draco stared at his spoons, everything measured and still. “I suppose that’s the kindest way of putting it. My mother, for the most part, is taking care of him. Like any good Pureblood family, we’re hiding our shame. Since I’ve married, I’ve inherited the estates, so that’s a load off her mind.”

“I’m sorry about your father. It must be difficult to run everything,” she said. Draco met her eyes, studying her. Whatever he saw seemed to appease him, since he looked away to the wide open windows that faced the slow crowd. 

“No, not particularly. If you hire a good enough accountant, old wealth will maintain itself. Though there’s always depreciation and devaluation, certainly. We’ve cut some costs to keep our buttons shining, but we’re far from hurting.”

“Your father,” she said, fork falling between the bleeding red of the beetroots. “Do you think he’ll return?”

“Eventually, I suppose. He disapproved that I was marrying Astoria, since she wasn’t as pro-Pureblood as he’d liked. Even more disappointed that I didn’t produce an heir.” Draco shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, the Malfoy line can die with me.” 

“That does certainly sound like him,” she said, “though I’m sorry, again, that it sent him - away.”

“No. Don’t be. It was just strange. I had spent so long trying to get his approval, wishing nothing more for it. Ten, twenty years ago, I would have married anybody he wanted. But I saw him for who he was. Just a person. Not an entity of my nightmares nor a force to behold.” Enough diners had joined other tables that a small hum of conversation appeared, decorated with wine pouring and the soft footsteps of the green-apron waiters. Pointy hats hung from the stand, napkins with small golden circlets presented in noble gestures. 

“I thought the same. Not about Lucius,” she added hastily. “But, you know. My parents. I’ve always looked up to them and I know it’s silly, since they don’t even read the wizarding newspapers, but I assumed they would keep me safe. During the War, when I wiped their memories, it felt wrong. Like I was protecting them instead.” 

When she had left them in Australia, the weather had been sweltering hot, simmers rising from the pavement. She’d walked along the sidewalk, but had to turn one last time to see the Wilkenses through the window. They were laughing about something, mouths moving silent behind the glass, and she wiped away the sweat from her eyes and marched down the street. 

“I suppose I still rely on my mother. I think I resemble her more,” Draco said. His features were smaller and daintier, she supposed, but he only looked tired and sickly, faint reminders of Narcissa’s stern stature. 

“It’s not like I don’t know my parents will always be proud of me,” she said. “It just does feel lonely, not being able to talk to them about everything. Knowing that if undines happened to fight a war over their house, I’d likely have to mindwipe them again. It crushes me.”

“Though I’m sure you’ll introduce more pro-Muggle laws.” Draco finally took a bite of his salad, resting the tines of his fork on the side. 

“I’m starting some things, scrolls, but honestly, I think we’d be fortunate enough to dismantle most of the harsher laws against Muggles. But it’s best to leave a legacy for the future. Our children can make what they want, and maybe in a hundred years, we’ll finally join societies. I think, if they look upon us as flawed humans, at least we can show them the best of what we can do.”

“Admirable.” Draco’s mouth twitched into what she realised was a faint smile. “It does remind me that despite my father’s flaws, I do think, in his own way, he was trying to protect me. In a cruel way. Of course, I am no longer so desperate for his good will.”

“Right,” she said into her salad. “And my parents might be just people, but they’ll always be there if I have trouble, the best they can. As well as any cavities, not that I’d have any.”

“Potter has children, doesn’t he? Named them after his who’s who.” 

“Oh, honestly with you lot. He loves his family, especially everything he’s been through with his parents. Ginny’s just had their third child, actually.”

“What’s the baby’s name? Did they make sure to spell it with a ‘c’?”

“No, they didn’t name  _ her _ after you. Lily Luna, which is a perfectly lovely name for a perfectly lovely baby. Of course, I’ve had a list of baby names since I was ten, next to my thirty-year career planner and all the spells that I wanted to invent,” she said smartly. “Rosalind, Juliette, Olivia. Adrian, Demetrius, Sebastian. Of course, I am open to suggestions.” 

“I do like those names for a daughter or son,” Draco said, “but won’t you return to the part where you were making lists at ten years old.”

“Of course I did. Doesn’t everyone? I still have them in my room, I cross-catalogued them and tagged them for the best searchability. Of course, I haven’t quite made it to Chief Witch of Magical Important Things because the position doesn’t exist,” she said, “but perhaps I’ll invent it eventually.” 

Draco’s mouth twitched again in an awkward, hesitant smile, his hand sliding over his chest. 

“Is it hurting again?” 

“No, it just felt strange. Never mind,” he said. “If you’re done with your meal, we can finally get you something appropriate for the party, and less like you’ve named a favourite gavel.” 

\--

“Pansy used to like these sorts of places,” Draco had said airily before he abandoned her into the hands of a strict-looking woman who pursed her lips, like Hermione’s dress robes physically pained her. The boutique had a loom that clacked in the corner as Hermione suddenly found herself saying, “No, ouch,” and “That’s not a colour I like at all” and “No, I’m almost certain that’s a Pureblood sigil.” 

She was scooping her old clothes into her magically expanded clutch when Draco finally returned. If she thought he usually dressed up, then she was sorely mistaken at the new formality of his crisp dress robes, dark like a raven’s feathers, black tie knotted close to the pale of his throat. He filled up the entrance of the store and she could understand why the Slytherin girls had fawned for him, his features sharp and severe, an atmosphere of indulgence, a weakness in his eyes.

“You look - nice,” she said. “I mean, you clean up nice.” She didn’t know why she was getting so flustered, hands gripping the pearly scales of her bag, heart quickening. It was just, in a boutique filled with a floral scent and chiffon and satin swimming in the air above them, blooming in rich, iridescent shade, she was struck with the feeling when Viktor had taken her to the Yule Ball, except this was  _ Malfoy _ , always on the verge of a hateful tirade, with hair swept back and a cool gaze and thin mouth, tidy and neat with his hands tucked into his pockets. 

“I suppose you look nice enough.” Draco cast his glance at the wall of moving fabric, and then resting his hand against the side of his neck. “Didn’t know that you looked like a human underneath all that.” 

“What?” She was rewarded but a faint flush against Draco’s face, and she bit back a smile at how his sneer returned with a vengeance. 

“Aurora,” he said, and the towering witch appeared by his side. 

“Yes, Mister Malfoy,” she said. 

“Look into the safe. She needs a necklace.” 

“It’s fine, isn’t it? I can barely afford any of this, anyway.” Hermione looked into the mirror. She was almost certain the dress robes were two years of her salary, too fine in their detail. These weren’t dress robes she’d bought at the store because Harry and Ginny were hosting a party and the purple dress had been on sale. This was different, a sable dress, paired with an ivory top, a capelet that had sheer black lace and embroidered flowers that bloomed, unveiling one thread at a time, when she moved. 

“Of course I’m paying,” Draco said. “Uncouth, Granger. Truly, it’s like taking a feral cat to a posh shop.” 

“I couldn’t possibly take your money. Save it for a charm school that could teach you manners.” 

Aurora appeared from the backroom with a small golden box, which she opened without ceremony. 

Hermione couldn’t see the appeal of most of the necklaces embedded into the dark velvet, large emeralds that were the size of walnuts, gaudy gold chains. More had snake motifs, which she had to wrinkle her nose. 

“Most of these have been in my family for generations,” Draco said idly. “So choose carefully that you don’t pick one from a mass murderer.” 

“Pleasant. I don’t want any of these, then.” 

“This one should be safe, from a great-great-aunt who stayed inside and baked pies,” he said, touching the tip of a necklace nearly hidden close to the latch of the box. “It suits you.”

“It is pretty,” she admitted. Most of her necklaces had also been bought at shops that also sold food or the wizarding Primarks. But this necklace, though simple in chain, did have lovely cut diamonds woven into a white rose design, one that shifted in iridescent colors when she brushed her finger beside it. 

“Then take it and let’s hurry. My father always did say being late was a sign of nobility,” Draco said, “but I’m starting to suspect it just made us look like arses.” 

“Is this really all right?” she asked, latching the necklace behind her. After the second try, Draco snorted and held out his hand. She wasn’t thinking when she turned around, and she suspected he hadn’t thought so far ahead, either. But Aurora was staring with her pursed lips, so she stood still and felt Draco’s fingers brush against the back of her neck. 

“What’s all right?” he asked, voice subdued. His touch was slightly cold and bony, but not unpleasant. 

“With your wife.” He inhaled so quietly that it sounded like her imagination. The silence between them felt like a cold gulf. She twisted to look at him, but he was gathering her clutch from the satin chair.

“I suppose it isn’t,” he said. “But she isn’t here to tell me what I’ve done wrong, so let’s go.” His tone had changed into steel, body turned away from her.

The weather had somehow changed to real rain when she stepped onto the street. Not the Ministry’s rain, which always pattered against the window in protest, but dark, heavy clouds had covered the skies, a real smell of wetness mixing with the droplets driving against her skin. A quick Meteloprotego cast an umbrella over herself as the horses of an inky black carriage pulled up towards them. Draco opened the door for her with a faint sneer, which somehow made her feel better, like he was finally facing her. 

“I was surprised that Weasley didn’t try to stop you from coming,” Draco finally said. 

“Of course he did.” The carriage pulled away with a heave, the stores running together into a blur. 

“I heard he’s quitting his job at the Ministry. Not cut out for that sort of work.” 

“Oh, stop. He just wanted to work at his brother’s shop. Nothing wrong with that.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her dress. “He did his work perfectly fine. Did you know, he got awarded Auror of the Month  _ twice _ . He was instrumental in the Wizened Wheezing Wizards case, and the case of the unlucky Leprechauns.”

“Dating Weasley must be a feat of babysitting,” Draco said. “Like taking care of a helpless infant.”

“Don’t be  _ stupid _ .” The revile in her tone even made her hesitate, but she plunged forward. “Ron isn’t like that, and you’re  _ better  _ than saying stupid rubbish like that.” 

“Am I?” 

Draco dropped his head, elbows resting on his knees. He sat with his robes billowed around him, a puddle of darkness. The shadows of the raindrops marred his hair. 

She folded her gloved fingers into a steeple, turning to the windows. The fleeced clouds stretched across the sky, silent and soft. She sometimes did feel like a content statue when she gazed on the vast quiet, like her muscles had been chiseled from marble and only knew quiet. Yet, somewhere inside the depths of her winter, she wanted to step down from her granite pedestal and use her stiff fingers to touch the softness of his hair, trying to piece him together again. 

\--

The carriage flew through the clouds for some quiet distance, but Draco finally spoke again when they began a rickety descent towards a line of statues. 

“Goyle’s family actually began in wizard masonry,” Draco said, fingers against his mouth. “Not golems, but some sophisticated enchantment magic. A subsidiary company from his family is rebuilding the Ministry’s fountain, actually, not that Potter can decide on anything.” 

“Do you still see him? Goyle, I mean. And Pansy?” Night had fallen, but enough of the crescent moon emerged to light the life-like statues protecting the roadway. 

“Pansy, not really. Sent belated congratulations on the marriage.” Draco shrugged. “Goyle, occasionally. He’s been on probationary release from Azkaban, doing some work at the cemetery. His family also crafts gravestones, so I suppose what’s left of Crabbe’s ashes can rest easy under that handiwork.” 

She didn’t think her hands were bloodless from the War, try as she might. After the War, she could still remember Harry telling her thickly about Goyle, sentenced from his Cruciatus curses for seven years at Azkaban. She shuffled the papers and saw the mugshots of her schoolmates, ready for sentencing, and she could understand why Harry looked somewhat troubled. He always did have worse enemies than her, but somehow, when the rubble had become as fine as salt, she also felt a deep rush of emptiness where she had once hated those who wronged her. 

Her pillow had been sodden with punches, once upon a time. She’d been fervent that her hatred would outlast her, an immortal monolith. Certainly, some of that still lived inside her. They’d reappear as jagged rocks, flinting inside her at whispered remarks. But other noble pillars of injustice had crumbled after the war until she was left, like Harry, slightly troubled. 

As she took Draco’s hand to climb out of the carriage, feeling the coldness of his fingers, she thought this stemmed from guilt about Remus and Tonks and Fred because she had gotten to do what they hadn’t. She’d grown older and found that her oldest enemies could one day become her friends. 

“Mind your step.” A dark forest sprouted around them, the road now only dimly lit by swinging lanterns that hovered near the windswept branches.

“I’ve passed by the Wyrmwood Estates before. It’s along the way to a nice little shop.” She’d sometimes sit and idly read a rubbish newspaper that had divinations predicted by fairy dust. 

“Never been inside for their parties?” 

“I’ve never been invited. Muggle-borns aren’t their society.” Her ears prickled, like she’d walked through the thin surface of a bubble, and suddenly a tinkling music began to swell in the air. In the semi-darkness, she could only hear Draco’s voice and feel his faint presence beside her. 

“It’s still surprising. They do love their events, I used to go to one a year. I remember I once got a servant canned because they brought me lukewarm tea during a party.”

“Oh, that’s horrid. That was a real person.” 

“Yes, it was. You’ll get lost in these woods if you keep wandering, come closer.”

“Oh, there’s music. I wonder what instruments are used for this song.” 

“Sounds like rather classical instruments. A celeste, an oboe, perhaps. A flute.”

“It all sounds so - different.” 

“Well, of course. They’re not like your Muggle… Beetles, was it? Old instruments and old music have old magic. There’s certainly more to magic than your appetisers.” 

“Oh, Malfoy. Oh!” She grabbed his elbow, staring at the sky. “Oh, that’s wondrous.” 

In the darkness, the river of the Milky Way stretched above them, bright even against the thin shadows of the pine trees. Transparent whitish fish swam alongside the currents, conjured by the high strings from the violin, the thin flutter of their fins from the trilled flute, the viola sparkling along their scales. The orchestra held a lilting note and swooped into the percussion, the beats rising into a crescendo. 

From the edge of the sky, the drums resounded into a slow bellow. A large figure, wispy and white, passed above even the fishes. A star whale that propelled, laboriously, along the dark clouds, comets striping its broad underbelly, constellations for its fins, the round moon for its eye. The heavy drums, pounding in her ears, pulled the whale to stretch across them, the sweeter sounds trickling like meteors. 

These were nights she’d spent as a child, wrapped up in her blankets. Sometimes at Hogwarts, certainly, sketching out constellations for a homework assignment. And sometimes these were the nights when her parents watched the news downstairs, and she had to hide that she was awake, perching against her windowsill and staring at the ocean above her. 

“Isn’t this beautiful?” She had to speak louder over the orchestra’s waves and her own heart pounding. “How did they do this? Is it the notes, the lyrics? The instruments? I’ve heard of a violin made from a magical cypress tree, is it something like that? Are there musical magic spells? Like the Pied Piper of Hamelin? Oh, honestly, it’s so entrancing.” 

“Of course it’s beautiful. Honestly, it’s like you’ve never seen anything half-decent in your life.” 

“Come now,” she started, but trailed away when she realised that somewhere within the dark forest, Draco had taken her hand to lead her down the trail. He turned to look at her, and she caught his eye within the midst of a celestial ocean, the softer moonlight playing a trick of shadows to make him look almost - kind. 

“ANNOUNCING THE ARRIVAL OF DRACO MALFOY, CREST OF THE MALFOYS, AND HIS ACCOMPANIMENT, HERMIONE GRANGER, FROM THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC.” She flinched at the sudden blare, a golden Howler sitting atop a pedestal. They had passed from the forest of sounds into a room, the music folding into a gentle, archaic background music. The wide, glittering ballroom resembled more a palace than the decrepit mansion she’d passed on her way for tea. 

A couple appeared behind them, so she stepped aside towards the potted pothos. She hated to admit it, but she understood why Draco had seemed unimpressed by her legal robes. 

The witches danced in dresses with modern silhouettes, but Tudorian to Georgian flairs, frills that swirled and hinted at the silk stockings, frames plumped with petticoats. A woman danced with her partner, a set of six velvet gloves hovering behind her like wings that stirred the tea, held her quiches, clamped tight to her clutch. Another had a dress of the sea, the seaglass green dripping and swirling into the white lacey foam, and her companion had a metal contraption around her head, a cage with swirling gold and silver planets, and a wizard briskly lead around a smattering of clouds. 

She clamped onto Draco’s forearm when a creature creaked through a painting, every movement a crisp rasp of paper. The creature had a porcelain, immovable face, the body of a feathery red griffin, and only clamped its thick talons to grab a wizarding weenie from a tray. 

“Traitor,” she heard someone hiss, followed by a guttural hock. When she turned, she saw that Draco had something wet on his sleeve, which he stared with impassion. 

“What?” She’d been busy staring at a wizard with a garden in his collar that her brain could only register at a slow click. “Who did that? Who - Excuse me, did you see who spat on him?” She stepped in front of a wizard in knight’s armor, the insides glowing with blue fire, heat flushing to her face.

“Granger, please.” Draco had already magicked away the spit, taking her by the elbow. “It’s nothing strange.”

“They must still be here. That’s an infraction,” she said, shoving her palm against the cool marble pillar. “And it’s inexcusable. How dare they - Excuse me, please -” She had managed to wave down a figure in a robe and pelted paws, but Draco blocked her path. 

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” he said, brow wrinkling. “Have you honestly got so little self-preservation? Go have some trifle, we’ve got better work to do.”

“It’s not fine, it’s  _ wrong _ .”

“You can’t save everyone from all the wrongs of the world.”

“No, but I can  _ try _ . If someone called  _ me  _ a blood traitor and  _ spat _ on me, I’d at least  _ try _ to find them. It’s disgusting and wrong and they need to hear that.”

“But it didn’t happen to you.” Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’d never find them in the crowd. We don’t even know if they’re pro-Muggle or pro-Pureblood. And even if we did find them, I can’t be arsed to scold them.” 

“We  _ will  _ find them,” she said. “My mum hasn’t marathoned Midsomer Murders for her daughter not to find a simple spitter.” 

Draco’s mouth twitched. He smoothed his hand over his mouth, eyes darting to the leafy fronds in thought. Behind him, the porcelain-faced creature sat on its haunches within the painting and gnawed on the sausage bits, slipping the food where a jagged crack ran across its face. 

“Here,” he said, and pressed something hard into her hand. “We’re not going to cause a fuss, but I’ll look around the room and greet Lady Wyrmwood. But use this to place bids in the meanwhile. Look for anything with snakes, or protection about spell rebounds.” 

“Oh,” she said. “I can’t take this.” The Malfoy seal weighed heavy in her hand, the handle a rich wooden auburn. The signature ‘M’ swirled, intricate in typeface. Even she knew, though she’d never seen one before, that old wizarding families considered their seals like their lifeblood. The lifelong feud of two long-standing wizard families, the Notts and the Prewetts, had started from a theft of a seal. 

“Don’t be a blushing bride, that’s disgusting.” Draco snorted. “And don’t get into too much trouble, Hermione. Wyrmwood Estates donates to plenty of pro-Muggle charities, and Astoria vouches for most of these people, but I wouldn’t trust anybody here with anything.” He squeezed her wrist so lightly that she thought she’d imagined it, and then he joined the throngs. 

She had tried to get Ron to go with her to formal parties, but he’d always grumble and moan. She always called it trauma from his formal dress robes, but this wasn’t his scene, she had to admit. With an anthropological perverseness, she watched the party-goers dance an old wizarding waltz. On the second floor, she could see Draco talking to a woman with a broad-shouldered embezzled cape. The balcony had been crowded with older wizards who had skull-shaped canes and thick brown cigars, smoke blowing into billows of scarlets and emeralds. 

She had always wanted to glimpse into the Wyrmwood Estates. She had dealt with its arms, of course. As one of the most charitable estates, their subsidiary charities had a plethora of grants. But gazing at the books laid out on the white table, she couldn’t help but almost laugh. The first Lord Wyrmwood had spent his era inventing and learning about curses, his old collection full of bone hexes and fire jinxes that built a foundation for the 60’s Dark Arts, before Voldemort’s revival. Now they funded grandeur parties, where she sipped a peach bellini and pursued books where the funds would be donated to provide food and wands and support for wizarding rights. 

Most of the people seemed to gather near the books with fancier covers, the one with a living eyeball embedded into the leather, or the one with black roses that chained the book shut. She glanced over the curt summaries for the less gaudy tomes, slipping out the Malfoy crest and stamping the parchment for her bid. The ‘M’ transformed on paper, shaping into more of a dragon-figure against the gold wax, a lock against tampering. 

“Sorry,” Draco said, close enough to her ear that she could feel his hot breath. “The Wyrmwoods purport themselves a holistic interest in spells, but Astoria’s blood malediction had them teething at the bridle.” 

“Right,” she said, avoiding the temptation to touch the cool lobe of her ear. 

“Have you seen anything good?” 

“It’s  _ fascinating _ ,” she said. “I know I haven’t even read all of the Ministry’s books, but I’d like to still read these. I’ve placed a few bids, I don’t think they’re the popular items.”

“I thought you weren’t planning on reading all the Ministry books.” 

“Right, yes,” she lied. “Have you gotten anything to eat? The pudding was quite all right - oh!” She grabbed his forearm. 

“What?” He turned partially, but she pulled him closer, using him as a shield. 

“No,” she said, hushed, heart beating in her chest. “Don’t be obvious. Just turn - a little bit - closer to where they’ve put out the hor d'oeuvres.” 

His brow furrowed, but he turned his head like an aching crane. 

“There are two witches eating small sandwiches,” Draco said slowly. “You’re right, Granger, this is truly shocking. I’ll never recover.”

“What? How can you not recognise them?” She couldn’t stop her hand from shaking, peering over Draco’s shoulder at the witches who were indeed eating small sandwiches. “ _ That’s _ Victoria Webb and Alya Griffiths. They’re the  _ founders _ of Witches United. I can’t believe they’re here. You didn’t  _ tell  _ me they were going to be here, Malfoy.” 

“I didn’t know they were going to attend,” Draco said, brow still furrowed. “And while I’m grateful you’ll attribute my actions as malicious, I don’t understand why I would tell you even if I had the guest list.”

“Witches United! Just last year, Webb released an investigative report on early witch marriages that could be considered the defining document for future cases. Griffiths has been overseeing the sponsorships with education for witches that’s been absolutely phenomenal, it’s the talk of the town. I can’t believe they’re here at this party!” 

“Me neither,” Draco said dryly. “Why don’t you introduce yourself to them?”

“What?” She stared at him. “No. Are you absurd?”

“If you need an intermediary, then I’ll introduce you to them. Though that’s more of a relic, nowadays, like taking sod from your host’s estate as a pillow.” 

“No, it’s not that. It’s just, I can’t just go up there and say, hello, I’m Hermione Granger, I’m your biggest fan. That’s so insipid and stupid.” She tugged at a stray hair, wrapping and unwrapping the strand around her finger. They were still standing and talking across the room. As much as she wanted their autographs for bragging rights, even just the glimpse of them was enough. They were even more fantastic in person than in their pictures, which she’d seen through the thorough coverages of their foundational works. 

“That sounds fine to say,” Draco said slowly. 

“No, of course it isn’t! Are you daft? They’re entirely too important for that kind of rubbish!” 

“I can see that.” Draco stared at where Griffiths had opened her sandwich and sniffed a piece of cucumber. “I don’t care about your affairs, but I can’t say I understand why you don’t take more pride in your work.”

“Of course I do,” she said, affronted. Draco wrinkled his nose. 

“Then I don’t see why you wouldn’t march up and shake their hands.”

“Because!” She wrapped her hair around her finger, coiling to her knuckles. “I’m not really like  _ them. _ What if I end up arguing with them? Or trying to show off? That’d be horrid.” 

“What’s wrong with showing off and being right?” Draco frowned. “Do what you want, I’ve got no qualms. But if this entire mansion was burning to ashes, I wouldn’t think twice about leaving them to rot. You’d be the only person I’d consider worth saving.”

“That’s terrible,” she said. “Are you the one who’d set the fire?”

“Perhaps.” 

She inhaled and exhaled sharply. The glitter of the room, ivory and gold, twinkled at the corner of her eyes. She elbowed Draco out of her way and marched towards the food, trying her best not to imagine him watching her. 

In front of the sausage weenies, she bowed her head and said, “Hello, how do you do.”

\--

As she expected, Webb and Griffiths had scintillating conversation. Of course, they’d said to call them Victoria and Alya, which she would write down in her diary just to notate the date. Though neither of them said they had seen the phantom spitter, Webb - no,  _ Victoria _ \- spoke at length about Muggle-born witches and their plights, with  _ Alya _ discussing anti-harassment legislation, and they’d actually been  _ interested _ in her work and impressed by her house-elf committees. 

“Of course, Magical Law still borders on impenetrable,” she was saying. 

“Are you familiar with Muggle Law? I’ve heard they had a lot of houses, like real estate.” 

“Oh, that’s not quite true.” She brightened at her expertise, but she felt a tap on her shoulder. Draco had gripped her elbow, not tight enough to hurt, but his entire expression had become a pallid mask. His smile, which he directed at her companions, was constrained and polite. 

“Forgive me,” he said. “Granger, could I have a moment?” 

“Of course,” Victoria said. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Hermione.” 

“I’ll send you an owl later.” Alya scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment. “I’d certainly love to hear more of your thoughts, especially from such a Ministry leader.” 

“Yes, please.” The smile stretched across her face until it hurt. She rubbed her cheeks as Draco led her away, heart still beating in her hands. “Oh, Malfoy, they were absolutely  _ brilliant _ . It was everything I could have wanted and more. Wait until Ron hears about this.” 

“We have to go.” Draco pushed open the doors. The black forest had become blanketed in snow, his footsteps crunching against the frost. 

“All right,” she said. “The party is lasting quite a while, so I’m ready to leave, too.” The doors closed behind them with a heavy thud, leaving them alone. The snow fell onto her shoulders and she shivered. Nobody else was outside, though the darkness, without the music, seemed impenetrable. 

“No,” Draco said, grabbing her forearm. “We have to go  _ now _ .” His polite mask had slid off, and from the dim lantern light, she could make out a glittering pain in his eyes and his sneer, his hand with a visible shake. 

“Right, we’ll go,” she said, trying to keep him steady. “We can call the carriage.” 

“There’s no  _ time _ ,” he hissed, and she was stumbling back in her low heels to try and adjust to his weight. His hand had fisted against his chest. The curse, it started at midnight. No clocks within the room because wizarding parties tended to last a long while, twelve hours at least, the hosts wouldn’t want impatient guests. Her mind clicked at a rapid pace, but distantly, she could tell she was flustered, breaths coming short and heavy. Draco was practically leaning on her, almost snarling, and they had to  _ go _ , but she didn’t know how - no, she was a witch, she could Apparate - but Apparate where? Something hot dripped onto her dress, blood,  _ they had to go _ , she Apparated with a loud crack.

She’d installed her foyer lights to be motion activated, and she was suddenly staring at the painting of a red flower that Ron had gifted her from a flea market. Draco knocked over her small wicker basket, her change clattering against her rack of shoes, and sliding down the wall. 

“Malfoy,” she said, still half-pinned beneath him. “Malfoy, hold on - What’s wrong? I can - I’ll call 999, hold on-” 

She screamed when the snake burst through his chest. 

It was a black snake, small like the type she’d see in gardens, but beautiful and gossamer. Globules of meat clung onto its iridescent black scales, blood running in muddy rivulets down its white belly. Its forked tongue hissed out, its round eye staring at her. She scrambled to grab something, anything, and chucked her trainer at its head, but it had already disappeared and her shoe hit the wall. 

“Draco,” she said, frantically, and leaned over. She gagged at the back of her mouth and recoiled. Draco’s chest had been torn open from the impact, blood splattering with chunks of his heart on her varnished floor. His ribs had been bent back from the force, protruding through his chest, the ventricles like a ripped balloon, valves sporting out the thick, viscous blood that filled the cavity. His eyes had rolled into the back of his head, his hand twitching, two fingers snapped the wrong way from the snake’s force. 

“Oh, fuck,” she said, “Fuck, fucking shit.” 

She pulled off her shawl, trying to halt most of the bleeding. When she pushed her hair out of her face, the smear of blood felt wet against her cheek. 

“ _ Brackium Emendo. Ferula. Reparo. _ ” She gnawed on her bottom lip, trying to find the pulse in Draco’s neck. After tearing off her glove, she’d managed to find something thready. She finally sat back on her heels with heavy relief. 

Draco did make sounds, laboured inhales that sounded less like gasps than air wheezing from his lungs. The healing process was apparently painful. This wasn’t unexpected, since healing spells sped through the body’s healing natural processes without care for anesthesia, but the pain usually only lasted for that short period. Despite her attempts, he was healing at a gruesome pace. The skin knitted together in millimeters, the pace the moon crossed the sky. As his heart membrane crawled together, he wheezed and shook, fingers curled in rigid pain.

Most of her flat remained in darkness, but the green letters of her digital clock spelled out 12:05. As she sat in the flat, sticky pool of blood, she hoped that her next birthday would be better. 


	3. though i am not naturally honest

She was a witch of means and shrewdness. She’d fought through the Second Wizarding War and all the various nay-sayers who thought she’d be nothing because of her blood. So she knew exactly what to do in these types of situations. 

She made tea. 

Draco had been dragged to her sofa, a knitted blanket from her Mum draped over him without ceremony.  _ Turgeo _ did most of the heavy cleaning. She’d changed into a comfortable sweatshirt, stepped into her kitchenette to look for a sleeping draught, and then put on the red kettle instead. She doubted the sleeping drought would work. Draco wasn’t conscious, but he still seemed to be in pain. 

Sending an owl to Ron or Harry would be simple. She doubted either of them slept so early, and even if they did, she couldn’t imagine them griping about rushing over and helping out. But she turned her mobile over and over in her hand, rubbing the case, and finally placed it down on her desk. 

They could keep her company, but she didn’t particularly want company at the moment. The urgency had passed into somber complacency. She sat on her high stool and watched water boil. 

“Why do you have a hedgehog quill-holder?” Though the voice was raspy and faint, she didn’t turn around. The kettle whistled in a low shriek, and she grabbed some mugs from her cabinet. One said WHIFF for the Witches’ Holistic Institute for Friends of Fairies, the other an emblazoned ‘Witches get Snitches’ from Ginny. 

“Because hedgehogs are pure and brilliant,” she said. 

Draco was still staring at her ceramic hedgehog when she placed the mugs on her coffee table. She took her black tea at her minimalistic armchair, blowing at the coils of steam. 

“Why have you taken me to a prison?” 

“This is my flat, Malfoy.” 

“Oh.” Draco peered around her living room. “I’m sorry about your poverty.” 

“Drink your tea.” Her decorating skills were quite brilliant, if she did say so herself. Though she had to admit that since she spent most of her time at work, she didn’t dare look at the dust on her cube bookshelf or the tangle of wires behind her flat-screen. 

Draco tried to pick up the WHIFF mug, but his hand trembled under the weight. 

“Here.” She held the mug steady until he could wrap both his hands around it. When she stepped back, he stared into the dark tea with a bitter expression. 

“Oh, don’t look like that,” she said, flushing. “I’m not pitying you. Isn’t this your dream? Having Muggles serve you, hand and foot? You should enjoy this while it lasts.” 

“This just reminds me of Astoria,” Draco said. 

“Right.” She settled back into her chair. “I don’t want to get into your affairs, but did you want to send her a letter? I don’t have an owl, but I can summon one.” 

Draco drank from the tea. His mouth seemed unsettled, an unhappy slant. 

“Granger,” he finally said. “I do know that you’re coarse and callous, but to be clear, do you believe my wife is still alive?” 

“What?” She darted her attention to his hand, the silver ring a faint shine against the dim fluorescent lights, and then pressed a hand against her mouth. “Oh, Draco. I’m so sorry.” 

He frowned at her, brow knitting again. Her face grew hot, a heat that rose from her chest that made her feel trapped. She swallowed in the silence, relinquishing her mug with a soft clink against the glass table. 

“No,” he finally said. “I didn’t realise until later that she never had an obituary. I wasn’t - inclined to send one to the papers, her family had all but disowned her, my father was already away. Of course you didn’t know.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That sounds absolutely horrid.” She did take comfort with how cross he looked with her sympathy, like a small dog that had endured too many pets. 

“It was her blood malediction,” he said to the wall. “She didn’t suffer long.”

“Does that have something to do with your curse?”

“No, her ancestor had been cursed and it’d passed along the generations. I mean, honestly, we had hoped she wouldn’t receive the malediction, but it’s only to be expected. Scars from your forefathers, burdened with their sins.” Draco sneered. 

“When were you cursed?” she asked, cautious. 

“Shortly after she passed. Though even that’s a supposition,” he added, “since it did begin quite insignificantly. It felt more like a tickle.” 

“I’m sorry, Malfoy. It sounds tough, dealing with all that once.” She tried to quiet the part of her mind that was trying to piece together a puzzle.

“To an extent. At least she was cognizant of her last moments, there were times her condition was too - fragile,” he said. “Days before she passed, she called me to her room. She cried, but not because she was going to die. She still said she had wanted to have a child for - us. Utterly, ridiculously stupid. Insipid. I had never taken her as such an idiot.” 

“Oh, Draco.” 

“Of course we liked each other enough,” he said, “but there was still pressure to marry within the sacred twenty-eight pureblood families. We entered more into an agreement, it was an empty marriage. She could have spent her remaining days anywhere else. Anywhere else. Buying whatever she wanted, meeting whoever she wanted. I should have known she wasn’t intelligent enough to think for herself.”

“Just because somebody loves you doesn’t make them stupid,” she said. 

He slowly slid his hand over his eye, covering half his face. She couldn’t make out his expression beyond the silver ring. His hair had been rucked up, mussed from where she had to pull him onto her couch. 

When she’d be petrified, it hadn’t hurt. Nor did it feel like one moment, she’d been looking at Penelope’s mirror and into the eyes of a Basilisk, and then blinking into awareness in the hospital ward. She had been aware of time in a sense, though she wouldn’t be able to recall any exact memories. She had simply not existed in that moment, just a peaceful figure that didn’t feel pain. She had been smart, yes, diligent enough to find out that it was a Basilisk. Deft enough to avoid certain death as she looked into the mirror and saw those yellow eyes. 

But even now, she was immobile and stiff, not like Ron or Harry, who would know what thing to say. They’d grumble something like, ‘you all right, mate?’ or ‘That’s a load,’ and actually be human and sympathetic, not sitting with her hands in her lap. Even something awkward and hurtful was more useful than what she was doing now, just watching Draco struggle not to cry. 

She knew this wasn’t true. Of course it wasn’t true, she worked so hard to help people and magical creatures. But sometimes, when she said a harsh remark to Ron or snapped at Harry, she felt like she was smart enough to hurt people, and a bit short when it came to anything that mattered. 

“Never mind,” Draco said, voice thick. “Like I said, it has nothing to do with my curse. I’m a wanted man from both societies. Someone just saw an opportunity after her passing.” He swiped the corner of his eye and she pretended not to notice. 

“I think we could find the person who cursed you,” she said. “I mean, it didn’t matter when you said it was just a nuisance. But you were lying. This is going to kill you, Malfoy, and that changes everything.” People did get cursed, especially in an Auror’s line of work. Not all of them were horrid Unforgivable Curses, some were simple leek jinxes or pepper breath hexes. And others could kill, even if not as fast as the Killing Curse. 

“Just like you to exaggerate,” Draco said. “I’ve had far more experience than you with curses. Don’t think a few classes could really teach you anything.”

“Of course, a curse that spirals from barely anything to - to  _ that _ is certainly nothing. If you really believe your own lies, you’re the idiot here.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll tell you what my ‘few classes’ have taught me. You are not supposed to go through what you do every night.” 

“Fascinating.” Draco stared at her with a contemptuous sneer. She rolled her eyes. 

“Certainly, the spell heals you afterwards. But bodies aren’t supposed to go through that type of continuous stress or withstand so much pain. You might get used to it and think it’s  _ normal _ ,” she said, “but it’s not. You’ll still be hurt. In fact, you’ll get hurt more easily and you won’t notice until it’s too late. And this just isn’t  _ right _ .”

“I didn’t ask for your help to hear your wizardry babble. If we got the book, fine. If we haven’t, then I’ll look elsewhere.” 

“That’s the other thing,” she cried, pointing a finger at him. “You  _ didn’t _ ask for help. I had to pry it out of you like it wasn’t your life on the line! You could have asked anybody at that party for help, a room full of people who are ostensibly interested in curses, and you were begging to hide the fact that you had a curse!” 

“I don’t  _ beg _ . And the Wyrmwood Estates regard curses with a fetishistic interest. Their research is laughable now.”

“You could still ask for their help,” she said furiously. “Somebody there might know something! Isn’t that worth your life at all?”

“Granger, honestly. Do you even understand how the wizarding world works?” Draco stared at her, pitying. “My family’s considered turncoats to pro-pureblood movements, weasels to pro-Muggle. Certainly, the family name is worth enough to throw around weight in some fancy society organisations, but there’s no real benefit from helping us anymore. Even your simple mind should understand that much.”

Her large bookshelf framed around Draco, full of texts and notes, favourite novels and antique store bargains. Pictures filled the book ends, punctuating photos of her and Harry and Ron on a summer day, when the light smell of sweetpeas in the air, and hand-drawn paintings from Luna, where she received a scribbled award and her friends applauded her in paint, and frames of Christmases with the Weasleys, where she’d been caught surprised by a jumper with a fancier “H,” to separate from Harry’s honorary jumper. These were warm auburns and tanned reds, and Draco sat between them, pale and pained. 

Harry reminded her of courage and family, a grounded saviour. Ron was warmth and joy, a heart fulfilled. Draco rested his wrist on her sofa arm and sneered, a pallid prince with an empty kingdom. 

“Do you not have any friends?” she asked softly. She was trying, honestly, to comprehend Draco. The elaborate wizarding dances, the ceremonies, she could understand. But if she had trouble, she’d call Ron. She’d ask Harry or Ginny. She couldn’t imagine a transaction between them, where they traded political favours every time she had to spot one of them for dinner. They were her friends and she’d give her life for any of them, drop everything to help them with any curse. 

“That has nothing to do with anything.” Draco shoved himself from the sofa. “That’s enough. It’s getting late and I should be getting on.” He stood for a brief moment before he sat back down, heavy on the cushions. His hands were shaking, face stricken with a masked pain.

“You can barely move, Malfoy,” she said. “Just sleep on the sofa tonight. I’ll Apparate you back in the morning after you’ve had a proper rest.” 

“I can’t sleep here,” Draco said. “This place is horrible. There are rats everywhere. That hedgehog will stare at me.” 

“Hedgehogs are blessed and pure, so you should be grateful. I’ve decided, so stop,” she said, rising from her chair before she could change her mind. She knew she was being carried by a sudden and deep pang of pity, but she couldn’t help herself. She just couldn’t imagine a life without her family and friends, so she was just going to let Draco stay the night. That was all. The same as when someone was too sloshed to climb on their broom, she’d just provide this little shelter.

As she settled the mugs into the sink, she thought, Draco Malfoy, in her flat. Ron was going to have a heart attack. 

She’d found some comfortable clothes for pajamas (“It’s a nice jumper,” she said, looking over the knitted threads, “but I forgot to give it to Ron for Christmas, so you can have it.”) and got him some water and food for the night (“I only have vegetarian,” she said, “but I hope you like veggie burgers.”) and inserted a DVD into her player in case he wanted to watch something (“Mary and the Witch’s Flower, if you can’t sleep,” she said, glancing at the painful grip of his mouth. “It always cheers me up.”) 

“You seem oddly experienced,” Draco said.

“Oh, well. Ron and Harry stay over sometimes, if it’s getting late. I love Ron, I really do, but he can be a fussy sleeper, and Harry’s always hungry. Though he doesn’t come over as much, not since he and Ginny had their first child.” 

“Right.” Draco, somehow looking more cross than when she’d tried to describe the plot of the film, picked up the burger and carefully took a bite. When he saw her staring, he glared back in return.

“Sorry, I’ve just - never seen anybody eat a burger that neatly,” she said. He had already tidied up the contents of her coffee table, too, the remote control aligned with her ceramic hedgehog. Though she had rolled her eyes at his remarks, she did have to wonder if her place did look like a hovel to him.

“Try to sleep a bit if you can,” she said. “Good night, Malfoy.” 

She had nearly stepped out into her slim hallway when she heard, “Granger.” 

When she turned, Draco wasn’t quite looking at her. She waited for another beat, but he only lowered his head. 

“You’re welcome. Get some rest,” she said. 

She closed the door to her bedroom. 

“Fuck,” she said, and collapsed on her bed. Just another nightmare to add onto her pile, the grotesque image of the snake in her head, the shimmery head, slick with blood. 

She grabbed her mobile, texting quick messages back to Harry and Ron and the family who’d sent her birthday kisses and pictures from the Quidditch match. Luna smiled and waved her twins’ hands, her tusk earrings that’d been carved into screaming mandrakes dangling to her shoulders. When she was finished, she tossed her phone onto her work desk with a clatter. 

Her feet ached, even though she’d only worn low heels, so she propped them against the board and covered her eyes with her hands. The crack of ribs, the half-eaten heart. The glittering snake that had looked at her. Slippery fingers, sliding through the blood, desperate because she had seen her friends die and she was stabbing Draco in the neck to try and find something that said he was alive, and the fact that he was a widower somehow just added to her troubles. She breathed in and out until they were level, bed absorbing her weight with the familiar warmth and her elbow brushing against the texture of her wall. 

She had enough of thinking for the day, so she thought about the softness of her pillow and the memory of the waltzing music, the fragile glissando, surrounded by climbing golden staircases and faceless figures with dresses of oceans and clouds and flowers, focusing on the steps. Rising to her toes, turning to the left, promenade, and somewhere else the bombs were falling and they were climbing into their aircrafts and hulking metal over oceans and a soul was splitting and a prophecy was said and and a baby cried into the distant night and she focused on the steps that never seemed to stop in the feverish frenzy, but the hand holding hers was comforting and cold. The oil painting dripped out of its woven golden frame, a portrait of a bleeding heart. 

\--

“Can you get in by yourself?” 

Draco seemed less pained in the morning, though still looked beleaguered and exhausted. When she offered her elbow to hold for the Side-Apparation, he seemed to lean on her without great complaint.

The Malfoy Manor, in the light, still looked haunted. The overcast day did the severe architecture no favours, the towers protruding into the clouds. She’d helped him to the black metal gate and she had enough of the strict windows staring down at her, the gurgling fountains that sounded choked, the thick row of hedges that smelled like faint rot. 

“Of course,” Draco said. “I wouldn’t invite you inside the manor even if you begged, but come to the doorstep. They should have delivered the books.”

“Oh, yes. I wonder which bids were successful for us.” She still wavered, though, even as Draco passed his hand over the thick lock of the gates. He stepped through with more poise than grace, and then looked back to her.

“What?” 

“I don’t have very good memories here,” she said, holding herself by the elbows. “Getting tortured and all.”

“Bellatrix is dead,” he said. “This is just my house.” 

“I know, it’s nothing. I know. I can go with you. It’s just to the porch. Of course it’s fine, I won’t have nightmares for days about this.” 

“If you don’t want to go, then don’t.” Draco sneered at her, a proverbial rolling of his eyes. She hurried after him, trying to compose herself and ignoring him. The manor loomed above her, comparable to a shopping centre in size and a tower in sombreness. She might have been able to control her mouth, but goosebumps prickled on her arm.

As Draco had said, beyond the pillars, a small package had arrived beside the elaborate doors. Though the box felt like a feather, as she pursued the interior, she could see four or five books tied together with a prestigious ribbon and tucked with a large gray feather. 

“Oh, brilliant! There’s a very promising one,” she said, bright. Her smile stalled on her face as Draco paused in the doorway. She had expected some traumatic memory to resurface, the feeling of a thousand needles and overwhelming pain, but all she saw was a messy interior. A dead fireplace had soot scattered on the floor, the baroque decorations had become covered in dust, clothes were strewn across sofas like tents. Some empty plates and cups scattered over the tables, letters piling into a mound on the black wooden floor.

“I know it looks different,” Draco said. “It’s a proper wizarding house, Granger. The rooms do change, and don’t always stay - small, like yours.” 

“Stop insulting my flat, it’s beautiful and pure,” she said automatically. She wanted to say, no, it wasn’t the new layout of rooms, it was the absolute mess. But, as she thought about it, perhaps the other house-elves had followed Dobby’s way and were eventually freed. Still, the shadows that clung to the dark family portraits gave her chills, and she missed the bright airiness of her room.

“Listen, are you going to have breakfast? You should have something to eat,” she continued, digging through her bag. “If you’re too tired, I’ve got some nutrient bars.” 

“What?” 

“Nutrient bars. You just open them and you can eat them. Here, there’s strawberry. Are you allergic to anything? I’ve got loads of blueberries. Anything else tastes really rubbish, though Harry says the granola isn’t too bad. It’s best to stick with the other classics, though, really.” 

“Do you always carry these around?” Draco had a handful of bars, looking at them bleakly. “Do you feed these  _ things _ to Weasley as a reward?”

“Ron will eat them, but it’s always better to stock up on food,” she said. “It’s what my mum taught me and it’s what her dad taught her. Listen, I’ve got to be going to work, but you should rest. I can send an owl if I’ve got anything from the books.”

“Don’t you have better things to do? Just leave already.” Draco began to shove the door closed, though he did keep it a crack open at the last moment, eyes darting across the floor. “People don’t tell you this enough, Granger, but you’re bothersome and incessant. I hope you know that.” 

“You’re a terrible person with an awful mouth. Eat something and I’ll see you later.” 

\--

She arrived to work early enough to be cornered by Ron, his hands tucked under his armpits and eyes wild and intense, an expression last seen at board game night of Gnomes Galore. 

“Good morning,” she said.

“Don’t beat around the bush,” Ron said, hushed. “What happened? Was he a jerk? How much of a jerk? The whole time, or only some of the time? Did it go all right? Did anything happen? I’ll beat him up, ‘Mione, I can take him on. I’ve got loads of Ton-Tongue Toffees, he won’t even know what hit him, and even if he did, he couldn’t say anything about it…”

“Oh, it went fine, I would have called if anything happened. And I can take him on quite well, thank you,” She patted him on the arm, though he only hunched up higher at her touch.

“You don’t.” Ron swallowed, looking queasier than the time she’d seen him eat a booger-flavoured Bertie Bott’s. “You don’t.  _ Fancy _ him, do you?”

“What? No. Of course not. For goodness’ sakes, it’s  _ Malfoy _ .” She lowered her voice now, too, heat flushing across her cheeks. Even though they had fenced off a corner of the hallway for themselves, she still glanced around the closed doorways with their frosted windows. 

“I heard that, you know, there’s a type of bad boy. That’s quite attractive.” Ron was looking quite ill at every word. “I’ve done my research. They’re quite appealing, right? The broken maverick, that’s what ‘in’ right now, right?”

“Ron, what’s gotten into you? What ‘research’ have you done? I bought you a book about Quidditch traditions for Christmas, something you actually  _ like _ , and every time I’ve visited your house, I’ve seen it propping up your table!” 

“It’s load-bearing now, all right? And maybe the research is from when we sat down Teddy and Victoire and she had some books and you can’t do it, ‘Mione, he’s a married man.”

“Malfoy is not a ‘bad boy’ by  _ any _ means,” she said, “and he’s a widower.” 

“Oh.” Ron shuffled his feet. “I’m sorry for his loss.”

“Listen, I’ve been careful around him, too,” she said, choosing not to tell Ron about how she stuck her head out the door while brushing her teeth and watched him stare at the DVD cover with mussed hair and a baffled expression. “But thank you for worrying. Honestly.”

“I think he’s a prick,” Ron said, staring at his scuffed shoes. “Every time I look at his face, I’m reminded of everything that’s garbage. He’s only good at running to his father and he’s the king of being a massive jerk. But you’re my best friend. If you really do - fancy him, then that’s. That’s fine.” Ron looked simultaneously like he wanted to vomit and like he’d been crushed by a Bludger. 

“It’s  _ Malfoy _ ,” she repeated. “He’s just a bit of a twat, but he’s not, you know.” She didn’t know what she had wanted to say. Not her type, perhaps. She felt like she’d just taken a toffee herself, tongue in knots. She brushed against her earlobe, grabbing a strand of hair and twisting it around her knuckle. Ron wasn’t standing too close to her, but she’d begun feeling quite flushed, a flare of heat across her neck and face.

“I support you,” Ron said. “I love you and I support you, but I’ll give you two Galleons if you don’t go out with Malfoy.” 

“Ron,” she said with a laugh. 

“You drive a hard bargain. All right,” he said, digging into his pockets. “How about five Knuts and a linty Sickle?”

This was what she would miss when Ron finally left the Ministry. She didn’t care so much about having a duty to save the wizarding world. She could do that well enough. But standing in the corner, running late to her job, having Harry be jealous over lunch that he’d missed out on their talk and hearing him try to bluff his way through a protective best friend speech, this was what mattered to her. She allowed her hair to unravel from her finger and thought this was what Draco didn’t have. 

“Ron,” she said affectionately, “if you were ever cursed, I’d help you.”

“What? Are you going to curse me?”

“In the meanwhile,” she said, brushing her hair back, “it’ll be quite fine. Draco would never be interested in a Muggle-born.” 

“Maybe,” Ron said dubiously. “But everything went all right yesterday, yeah? I mean, me and the gang had a fantastic time at Quidditch, but we were right worried and missing you a lot. I mean, we weren’t thinking you’d spent the night at Malfoy’s or anything like that, don’t worry, but you didn’t mobile-owl us back until late.” 

“Oh, Ron,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m a proper lady.  _ Malfoy _ spent a night at  _ my _ place.” 

Ron looked at her in the same way he’d looked at a fizzled party popper, betrayed and shocked.

“That’s definitely going to make it into the Weasley Weekly,” he said quietly.

\--

“I’ve always loved the library,” she said. “Ron was right. I do love books.” 

“Horrific.” She could tell it had been Draco because Ron’s footsteps were rough and heavy, Harry’s were scattered and quick, and Draco stepped with a sort of soft, even grace. Today he was accompanied by a quiet clacking noise. She finally peered up from her book. Or down from her book, since she’d been dangling upside down on her broomstick. Draco did have a cane, though the handle had a normal curve and not some horrid Muggle torture sculpture. 

“Madame didn’t categorise these very much,” she said, “but it is difficult. The cataloging system hadn’t been built for wizardry. Should the cataloging language be expanded? A new one invented? Muggles use computers, but we’ve got search spells. It’s all different, and this library stretches out forever. There’s a book in here that was confiscated from the 1800’s and it just has one word. They say it’s made twenty people go mad already. What are the keywords for that?”

“My father always seemed to find the book he wanted,” Draco said. “I suspect the majority of them were decoration.”

“Of course, there are decorative books. This one can only be read when you’re upside down. There’s books that will sprout lily of the nights, or books they say have souls of magical creatures. A book of sound, a book made out of seashells. There’s a rumour that there’s a book that prophesizes the entire future, every single line a new year. And none of the ambiguous nonsense, either, where if you were born under the fifth moon, you might meet someone who will love you, all that rubbish. A book of a clear future.” She gazed at the expansive library before her. 

“Will you be adding those to the collection?” he asked, nodding to the stack of books purchased from the auction. 

“They do seem quite valuable. I mean, certainly, when we think dangerous books, we think about the ones that will suck you inside or those that’ll snap your throat, but there’s so much knowledge in all these books of curses that have been forgotten,” she said. “Frightening books that talk about the best way to kill Muggles composed in only the last few years. Ministry secrets and conspiracies, those they’ve covered up so the world doesn’t stop turning, about electricity and spell composition and licensing. Isn’t it all fascinating?”

“If it’s fascinating to you,” Draco said, “then I suppose I could listen.”

“We’ve gotten some interesting books from the auction. One theorizes that the Killing Curse actually started out as a healing spell, meant to kill the illness inside you. Spell corruption, turning spells into the Dark Arts, had been quite popular years ago. But I think it’s fascinating to know that. Years and years ago, a curse could have been a spell that once wished you well.”

“In other words, you think someone wished very hard on my good health.” Draco propped his chin on his cane. “Who am I to argue.”

“Of course not. But I was thinking this curse was a bit strange. I mean, first, this curse  _ intends _ to kill you. Eventually, the snake will be too powerful and your healing will happen too slow. I suspect the spellcaster wanted you to bleed to death painfully and horrifically.”

“Cheerful.”

“But what it  _ does _ is torture you before it kills you. I think it was chosen to give you the most amount of pain, but I suspect this isn’t the original form of the curse. There’s more horrible ways to torture you and better ways to kill you. But what if it’s been corrupted? Whether killing you is the benefit or the by-product. Then, logically, we shouldn’t be only focusing on killing and torture spells, but expanding our search instead.” 

“You seem quite joyful about this,” Draco said. “Have you been meaning to tell me something?”

“The snake part doesn’t quite help,” she said. “There were so many wizards and witches that specialised in snake magic, like the study of maledictuses. But, you know, magic snakes are a bit different. This snake wasn’t summoned, it simply became created out of different bits. That’s older magic, and that helps us narrow down the field.”

“Does this have anything to do with your owl?” Draco held up the parchment that only said, ‘Eureka!’

“I found the key book,” she said, finally flipping into her chair. She had a line of quills, the plethora of feathers shuffling like a line of dancers. “And from the key book, I figured out the era that the spell most likely originated. And from there, I looked into spellmakers who had been specialists in those areas. And then I defined the spell even further to try and find any part of it.”

“And?” He stared at her intently. 

“And I found it.” She smiled and tapped the old gray book on her desk. “I found how to break your curse.”

Draco’s mouth spasmed. He truly didn’t know how to smile, she thought. He only knew how to sneer and grin menacingly, snobbish and righteous. When it came to joy, he somehow looked lost. She knew he was happy by the relaxed way he held his shoulders, the light grip of the cane, but his mouth only twitched upward. She found herself reaching out to touch his cold hand, and he didn’t move away from her fingers. 

\--

It had been in a book of spells from the 18th century. “Elegy to Lamia’s Illusion” was the curse’s name, a passive torture spell. The wizard had only a curt description, remarking about a heart-eating snake, but that was all needed for Hermione to find the book. 

“The curse is supposed to be cast onto objects, so the counter-curse also only removes the spell from the cursed trinket. Oh, but that’s all right,” she said hastily. “There is a potion that counteracts the conjured snake, which is what we want. The ingredients seem quite manageable. None of this ‘tears from a unicorn blessed under the sixteenth nightfall’ nonsense.”

“How manageable?” Draco peered over her shoulder. They had moved to the sofas near the backroom, where he sat beside her to read the book on the table. 

“I mean, we do need tears from a ghost,” she said, “but we can get that at a shop. Fanged geranium, powdered Bicorn horn - oh, I know that one, that’s in Polyjuice potion. Neem oil, dittany, basil. I’ve already got fresh basil, actually.”

“It’s shocking that you still concoct potions.” 

“Oh. Yes. My infamous tomato sauce potion. What,” she said defensively at his dry look. 

“Nothing. I’d assumed you were always better at potions than the rest of your friends.”

“I  _ am _ good at potions. And if we had a different professor, maybe Harry would have done a bit better.” She bit her bottom lip. “Though potions are difficult, the precision of some of these tinctures are horrible. Isn’t this your strength?”

“I suppose I did enjoy potions. Haven’t used the lab in a while.” Draco leaned closer to the book, finger trailing down the scribbled list. “You’re right, most of these ingredients are simpler than I anticipated. Nothing too sophisticated about the ingredient interactions.” 

“Ingredient interactions,” she said, clapping her hands together and recalling the glass beakers in front of her. “Yes, from class. Like Bicorn horn and fluxweed, amplifying each other’s strengths. A cold philosophy.” 

“This is certainly an older recipe,” Draco said with a faint sneer. “Ludicrous. This potion-maker requires a white rose when a rose of any colour should do fine. A statement of its history, perhaps.”

“Maybe they believed it had a special significance. There’s the language of flowers,” she said, “like if you give someone a white rose, that’s supposed to mean - purity, devotion, innocence, something like that.”

“The Muggle world is strange.”

“Oh, don’t act like flowers have no meaning in the wizarding world.”

“Of course they have meaning. If someone gives you flowers, it means the florist had strong colour matching recommendations, the selection had been at the front of the shop, and, oh yes, that person probably likes you.” Draco had a faint sneer. “Honestly, some of your nonsense is baffling.”

“I’m utterly proud of you, Malfoy. It’s so courageous for you to think you’re actually witty.” 

“I don’t see,” Draco said, ignoring her, “anything about a curse rebound.” 

Curse rebounds weren’t uncommon, but they weren’t too common, either. Spells that bounced off mirrors, for example, or the spell that had given Harry his scar were considered rebounds. There was a particularly karmic type of rebound that occasionally came with older spells, where a countercurse not only removed the curse’s effect, but sent the curse back to its owner. An entire section of the library had been devoted to curses, countercurses, and everything in-between, with some gruesome examples.

“The manor does have its own library,” Draco continued. “I’ve done my own research about the general type of curse. Their rebounds are considered more - deadly.”

“There’s a bit in the beginning about that.” She leaned back against the armrest, hesitant. “If you drink the potion, the curse will return its owner. It’s not a true karmic rebound, though. It’ll also impact anybody standing near the curser. I think anybody standing at least a yard away, though I can’t be certain. There’s nothing much about that part, but you’re right. It’s deadly.”

“I see.” The shift had been subtle, a quiet disappointment that somehow sounded final. His shoulders tightened, but when he glanced at her, his face had reassembled into a purposefully bored expression.

She had meant to get to that part later, but she couldn’t avoid it much longer. Her inhale came from her stomach, hands flat against her knees. 

“You know, when Harry and Ron talk about their cases, a lot of the time it’s quite random. The undines chase their rampaging kelpies into the city, or a wizard kills Muggles at his whim. But, you know, curses are a little bit different.” She folded her hands over her lap, and then refolded her fingers together. “In most cases, it’s personal. Someone close, who can get through the normal magical defenses. Someone who wants to hurt you, badly, more than an idle thought. Malfoy, I think you  _ must  _ have an idea about who cursed you.” 

“You’re right,” Draco said. “It was Potter.” 

“Malfoy.” She tightened her fingers. “I want to help you, but I can’t let you drink the potion until you tell me. It’ll hurt innocent bystanders if we don’t prepare. We can at least try to put protection spells around them, stave off the worse.”

“How noble. Always putting others ahead of yourself.” 

“ _ Malfoy _ .” She twisted to stare into his pallid eyes. “Don’t be a twat. I know, I want to protect the person who hurt you, and that feels wrong to you. It’s despicable, it’s low, it’s horrid.”

“No. It’s not.” His mouth had been schooled into a relaxed sneer. “It’s what I expect from you. Brilliant, nosey little Granger. What, you won’t let me save myself if it costs another life?”

“I’m sure there are proper protection spells that-”

“And what if there isn’t? We both know most of those spells don’t work, and even if they did, they might not prevent permanent injury.” He seemed to lord over her, which prickled an annoyance in the back of her throat. “You’d let me die, wouldn’t you? Choosing them over me?”

“There must be a way. I’ll  _ think _ of a way.”

“You can’t think of everything.” He grew bored, his eyes shuttering. “Perhaps I do want the curse to fly back to them. Have them suffer. In the wizarding world, that’s considered  _ righteous. _ ”

“Just tell me who you think it is,” she said angrily to her lap. “I’ll go through the proper channels. The investigation will be above board, they’ll be prosecuted for what they did. Badly. So you don’t have to -  _ kill  _ them, now that you’ve got your hands on the potion.”

She had first believed his claims that a random person had taken offense at him. But it had been ages since the Malfoy name had resurfaced in the papers and crowds weren’t gallivanting to mob him. Of course old hatred could still burn at the candlewick, but even Harry had awkward meetings with Draco in his office and Ron hadn’t actually kicked Draco out of the library for being an atrocious git. People might dislike him when they passed him at a party, but the assaults petered out into petty slanders.

Draco’s insistence felt too heavy, eventually. She knew Draco lied. He lied about everything that he could, lies slithering out with flickers of a forked tongue. For some reason, the lying didn’t bother her as much as the reason. She just didn’t understand what he thought was worth his life to hide.

“You’re half-right,” he finally said, carefully. “I suspect I know who cursed me. But I’m not particularly plotting for revenge, except maybe against Potter. There’s just no need for you to fear about the curse rebound.”

“Then just tell me who cursed you.”

“You wouldn’t understand. You’d jump to conclusions about it, patting yourself on the back.”

“Then explain it to me so I won’t! I’m trying to help you, Malfoy,” she said, exasperated. “Why is that so difficult for your small mind to understand?”

Draco looked at her, like he was studying her. Years ago, she wouldn’t care what he thought. At least that’s what she’d say. Now she tried to decipher his aching look, the way he seemed to teeter on the edge of a decision, before withdrawing back to the cane that he had hooked to the sofa. He covered the handle with his hand, thumb resting on the curved hook. He couldn’t hide the deterioration of his condition, at least. Even just to walk to the reading area, he had leaned on his cane and sat down with heaviness. 

“My father has a collection of canes,” he said slowly, as if searching for something, “all carved from the finest wood. He loved his canes. When he was angry, he used to hit things with them. House-elves, chairs, walls.” 

“You?” She caught a glimpse of confusion, then his face returned to its arrogant demeanor. Her question took him off guard, perhaps because he had assumed she’d focus on Dobby. But Dobby was resting now. She already knew how Lucius had treated his house-elves. This revulsed her, but did not shock her. 

“Occasionally. Infrequently. It’s nothing novel. It’s a pride of old wizarding tradition,” he said, raising himself higher. “It’s simply the way the young are taught. There’s nothing abnormal about it.”

“It sounds cruel.”

“It wasn’t. Don’t make it sound like I need anybody’s  _ rescue _ ,” he sneered. “I never lacked for anything, more than can be said about your little friends. Even if I no longer agree with my father’s ideals, I can respect his affinity to order.”

“I’m still sorry that your father hit you when he was angry.” So this was what it took to hurt Draco. Not insults, but genuine sympathy. His eyes flashed with raw confusion. He recovered, of course, and she touched her mouth, her mind clicking like clockwork. 

“Never mind,” he snapped. “What I mean to say is that my upbringing had  _ discipline.  _ Not that I’d hit  _ anybody _ , but I understood the order of tradition more than Astoria, at times, who grew up - more rebellious. Closer to her last days, we fought more.” 

“Did Astoria curse you?” She tried to imagine Astoria, but all she could see were Astoria’s mysterious eyes in the marriage announcement photo. While Astoria wasn’t Pansy, by any means, she did resemble a Slytherin in the way she held herself and the disinterest of her distant gaze.

“Even I noticed this was an inefficient curse. Like someone who couldn’t curse me outright, didn’t have the opportunity or the means to do so. They - she must have cast it on an object and had it buried with her. I visit her grave every month, she knew it would have worked eventually.” Draco drew his hand over his mouth, looking to the bookshelves. “It’s stupid. It’s utterly stupid. But even if the curse rebounds, there really isn’t anybody it could hurt. She’s already - gone.” 

“Are you certain it was her?” she pressed. “I think, from everything you’ve said, that she was affectionate of you.” 

“You can’t be so into fairy tales that you don’t know that love is about pain. Holding emotions hostage, the anger and bitterness.” He smiled thinly between his fingers. “She was dying, and she wanted to take me with her. Isn’t that quite beautiful?” 

Of course she fought with Ron. Little arguments turned heated, small explosions of who didn’t take out the bins, or why she had to work late, or why he insisted on going to the pub instead of somewhere else for their first-date anniversary. He was funny, kind, warm-hearted, and selfish, angry, stubborn. But she wouldn’t have characterised their relationship about pain. Her memories with Ron always lingered on the evenings when she read on the sofa, Ron playing a game of chess on the table. Waking up stricken with nightmares about torture and dead friends, and having his arms wrap around her, or when he’d get up in the dark and refuse to talk to her about what troubled him, so she’d make him a warm cup of tea because that was the only way she knew to help. 

“I wouldn’t have thought she had that in her,” Draco continued, dropping his hand. “Never thought she’d oppose me. It’s a cunning she never had in school, though the entire plan is stupid. Did she really think I wouldn’t notice? She’s too simple. Idiotic. I’ve always known this about her, even when we were children.”

“Oh, don’t,” she said, even though she knew she’d said it wrong. Draco’s eyes flashed when he looked at her, as if he was looking at prey, but he relaxed back to the cushion. 

“I’ll give her this credit,” he said, with an affected disinterest. “The moment I figured out it was her, I knew it would kill me.”

“It won’t. We’ll make the potion, and it’ll be fine. I mean, you must have a potions laboratory in your manor somewhere. And then you can keep on - doing whatever you do.” She hadn’t thought about what would happen after they’d found the countercurse. The emptiness of her library left her with a pang. She’d gotten used to Draco’s lurking presence around the corner. 

“Being horrid to people, is what your little friends would say.” Draco propped up his chin with his hand. “I suppose I should thank you for doing the work, though it was only proper and expected of you. If you failed to do even that, it would have been a true testament to your weakness.”

“You’re welcome, Malfoy.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering against the strand. “I can’t say we can applaud each other just yet, but I do have some degree of confidence in the work. I hope you do tell me if it’s effective.”

“If I’m permitted in here again. In fact, I’m surprised already that Weasley hasn’t burst in here and separated us. I can already hear that withered brain rattling around his head.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way about Ron,” she said. “And he isn’t here because he’s busy with his last paperwork, hopefully, or possibly just chatting with Harry. But he respects my decisions.”

“What a wonderful little boyfriend.” Draco closed the book. “I suppose you won’t have any issues with me taking this back?”

“That’s fine.” She watched him tidy up the remaining books on the table, stacking them together in straight lines. “Malfoy, I’ll still think you’re quite nasty, but - do you think Ron is my boyfriend or are you just trying to be mean?”

“Isn’t he?” Draco wrinkled his nose. 

“I mean, he was. A long while ago. We separated a few years back,” she said. “It was amicable, of course. He’s still my best friend. He’s just dating someone else now, Tom. Thomas Halliwell. Tom to his friends.”

“Thomas to me, then.” Draco frowned. “I’ve heard you say that you loved him. Isn’t that an affair?”

“What?” She blinked. “I - do tell him I love him. I also say that to Harry, too. I mean, of course I love them. As friends.”

“Strange.” 

“No? I wouldn’t say so,” she said dubiously. 

“So you’re not dating Weasley.”

“No. I’m not.”

“I see.” Draco nodded slowly. “So it was a misunderstanding on my part.” 

“Yes, well.” It hadn’t been a secret, but she supposed Harry hadn’t spoken too much of their affairs to Draco. “I’ve had misunderstandings about your relationship, too.” 

He nodded again. The library was quiet. Her new hires had to present their research, so they were alone amidst the walls of books. The shimmering glow of the flowers ebbed and flowed, the rain muting the light from the high windows. 

She didn’t know if she grabbed him first or if he grabbed her. 

He kissed her like he was desperate, and she’d managed to grab him by his face and kissed him hard. Under her palm, he was all bones and sharp edges and pain, and she wanted to break him, crushing, watch him shatter and sob, she shoved her fingers against the strands of his hair and felt them fan under her fingers, falling apart from where he’d carefully pushed them back, and her heart was in her ears. She’d barely had time to gasp for breath before she pulled him again because she didn’t want to think, she just wanted to feel, she wanted to press into his heat and vulnerabilities and watch him shudder, wanted to put him back together again, piece by piece, wanted to make him whole. 

Her elbow had jammed into his ribs and he had most of his weight on her diaphragm, but she didn’t want to stop him. His mouth was warm, and he kissed her ear when she gasped for breath, his hand shoved between her waist and the dull green sofa. So close, he smelled like old books and wealth, a mellow tinge underneath like a distant garden, and when she touched his cheek, the back of his neck, his collarbone, she could feel the softness of his skin and it surprised her. Her ears must have been flushed and she gripped his silk lapels when he kissed her neck and she resonated her heartbeat to the tips of her fingers, burning from the inside. 

When he finally stopped, he buried his face into her hair and didn’t move. She tried to catch her breath, a splayed hand against his shoulder. 

“We can’t,” he mumbled. 

“What?” She wanted to assume she looked nice and proper, but her clothes had gotten rucked and crumpled, the heat emanating from her face. When he finally propped himself up, he looked disheveled as well, hair falling across his forehead and his collar falling open. 

“We can’t do this,” he repeated, though he seemed like he was talking to himself. He stared off into the carpet.

“Right,” she said. “Why not?” 

He finally sat back, his hand missing the back of the sofa the first time. 

“Because,” he said. “You’re a Muggleborn, Granger.”


	4. i am sometimes by chance

She knew who she was. She was proud of her feats and her protection of Muggle rights. But somehow, hearing Draco say it in this context, after all this time, felt like the Cruciatus curse descended over her again, the echoes of pain richoting up her arms and legs.

“Excuse me,” she started, sitting up. “No. No, excuse  _ you _ . What are you saying?”

“You heard me the first time.” Draco pushed back his hair, but the styling had fallen apart. “You’re a Muggleborn. It’d be disgraceful to have anything  _ romantic _ to do with you.” 

“I helped you,” she said. “You  _ let _ me help you. And  _ now _ you’re going to sit there and say those horrible, terrible,  _ hateful _ things? Really, Malfoy?” 

“I didn’t ask for your help,” he said coolly. “But I appreciate your contributions. Really, you should be grateful that I allowed you to rise above your rank. I always had thought you were the smartest of the terrible trio, but it turns out, you’ve got the same blind spots as any of them.”

“Oh, you bastard.” She stared him in the eyes, her heart a hard muscle. “You feckless bastard. Did you just use me to save your own skin?”

“That’s the problem with you, Granger.” Draco’s smile looked wrong on his face, twisted and grim. “You’re too self-sacrificial. So what if I wanted to save myself by any means necessary? That’s not a fault. That’s simply intelligence.” 

“That’s  _ cowardice _ . And you, Draco Malfoy, have always been a cowardly little snot. I thought you’d  _ changed _ , but I was utterly, totally wrong about you.” Her face had grown flush with anger, her fingernails digging into her palms. “After all this time, you’re still treating anybody Muggleborn like  _ rubbish _ . You’re a rat, a pompous rat.” 

“It’s not my fault if you tricked yourself into the wrong idea.” Draco’s smile was placid. 

“Yes, of course. I was utterly stupid because I thought you had found a shred of human decency, for once in your pathetic life,” she snarled. “I should have known. I remember, at the manor, how you stood by when I got  _ tortured _ . That you did want to sell out Harry, that you were going to hand him over like a slab of roast beef, to save your own hide.” 

“And yet, Potter is alive and well.” 

“Harry is alive because the best thing that you’ve ever done in your life was being  _ weak _ . Too weak to be declarative, too weak to do anything well.” She let out a sharp, biting laugh. “I should haven’t expected anything from you. I thought - no, I was just fooled.” 

“You fooled yourself, really. Thinking that I’d be interested in you for anything other than a quick snog.” Draco smiled. “But it’s delusional to think there’s anything more. It’d sully the Pureblood line if we went any further.”

“Yes, of course,” she spat. “Your heritage of hatred and violence, your  _ glorious _ , wonderful, beautiful inheritance of bigotry.” 

“Do you really take so much pride in your Muggle side? They’re poor, pathetic, idiotic sheep. It’s honestly offensive to think that the cattle could intermingle with proper wizards. It’s wrong, isn’t it? I think even someone like you could understand that and know your place.” He usually held himself with regality, a past of his upbringing, but this time, his straight back and cool gaze only reminded her that she was dealing with a former Death Eater. If she grabbed his sleeve and pushed it up, she expected the Dark Mark to be still emblazoned on his skin. 

“Why are you saying this now?” she said, voice low and dangerous.

“I want to hurt you.” He looked at her like a stranger would look at her on the street. Her anger was choking her, squeezing her. 

“You’re a bastard, Malfoy. There’s nothing good about you, nothing good inside you. If you tried to cast any pure spell, I’m certain maggots will rot inside you,” she said, and took advantage of his small flinch, the crack in his face. “I wouldn’t want to live your life, because underneath all those nice toys, you’re still begging for your father’s love and needing your mother’s protection.”

“Try again, Granger. I don’t even think of my father anymore,” he said. “More than I can say about you and how you hang onto your only two friends. A poor little orphan and a wizard who’s just poor. They do say you are the company you keep.”

“Stop saying those things about my friends with your rotted mouth,” she hissed. 

“What? You’ll do something to stop me?” He smiled lazily. 

“Get out. Get out now. Don’t come back. Never set foot into the Ministry again. In fact, give me your coin.” She held out a hand, half-surprised when he dug inside his pocket and passed over the permission coin. A simple tap of her wand from her trembling hand burned off the permission number with a sizzle. The steam rose into the air. She tossed the silver coin across the room, hurling it until it clattered against the glass of an enclosed bookshelf. 

“What’s the condition of the ban?” Draco half-smiled. “I could bring it up to court. Say that you’re unprofessional, unsuited for your role.” 

“I am banning you because you are a twat,” she said in a low voice. “Take the book. Pack your things. Go. Now.” She was angry. She could feel she was angry, the prickling at the back of her neck and the heat that threatened to boil her alive. 

“Is that a threat, Granger?”

“Yes. Leave.” She stared at him, her mouth dry and raspy. “Before I want to hurt you, too.”

“I’m certain it’s too late for that.” He knocked his cane over when he reached for it. His hand trembled when he finally grasped the handle. She was shaking, too. Cold sweat dripped from her neck, an icy touch. She watched him leave and listened to the heavy door close. She was alone in the room, her cheeks burning, hair a tangle and sticking to her face. 

Swallowing heavily, she tried to brush back her hair and fix her skirt. The lump in her throat felt too thick. She eventually sat down within the cushions and stared at the tidy pile of books. 

She shoved the books off the table. They clattered onto the soft carpeted floor, the covers landing on top of each other. It didn’t make her feel better, didn’t unknot the tangle that was lurking in her chest. She wanted to scream, throw anything she could find, smash something with her bare fists. 

Instead, she covered her eyes with her hands and tried to only breathe. 

\--

The argument, if it could be called that, only lasted a few minutes. She was a proper witch, though, and didn’t let that get her down. It was just a coincidence that she took a few days off work and sat on her couch and stared at the telly until she was sick of everything and tossed the remote onto the table. 

She’d start something, like cooking, and then get distracted by her anger. It felt like a throbbing mass inside her until she felt like she was damaging herself, chewing on her lip so hard that it bled, gripping her wand so tight that she was afraid she’d break it. 

Several half-finished letters scattered across her desk. Most of them didn’t start with kind salutations. 

She paced. Of course she paced, even though she was still in her pyjamas. She thought of things she could have said to twist that knife into him harder. Could have called him a ferret. Should have called him a ferret. But that wouldn’t have really hurt him. That was the problem with morals. 

After eating some ice cream, she felt sick, so she went to lie down on her bed. 

The fresh wash of humiliation came in waves. Tricked by Malfoy sounded so petty. She was called a mean name and she didn’t like that. She couldn’t even describe the argument to Harry and Ron, though they had pledged to take her out to a nice meal and just help her forget it all. She loved them, she honestly did, but she did half-wonder if she could ask Ginny for a night out. But Ginny was still Ron’s little sister, so she just tried not to think too much until the emotions came tumbling back into her again. 

She started browsing online to guilt-buy some new books. That would show Malfoy, reading the latest bestseller in romance. 

The shoppe page disappeared, replaced by a buzzing picture of her mother. She swiped the green callsign.

“Mum?”

“Oh, sweetie,” her mother said. “Is this a bad time? I could call back if it’s a bad time.”

“No, it’s fine. Honestly.” She hadn’t been crying, though hot tears had prickled in the back of her eyes, but she still tried to sit straight and dignified. 

“Are you certain? You don’t sound well. Is something the matter?” 

“No. Not really.” She swiped at her nose. “It’s silly, I just got into an argument with a friend. Someone who I thought was a friend, but wasn’t really a friend. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Did you need something?”

“It’s not very important,” her mother’s tinny voice said, “just wanting to see if you were coming around for your father’s birthday party next week.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it, I already got his present and everything.”

“Good, good. Now, what was that about your ex-friend?”

“Oh, Mum,” she laughed. “No, it’s really nothing. I promise. I’m just angry, it’ll blow over soon.”

“I’m sure you have plenty of reason to be angry. I got into quite a row with Ms. Davies down the street. She always does think her garden looks the best just because it’s got a bit of colour in the flowers. Honestly, I don’t think anybody in the neighbourhood really likes her, we all just tolerate her to some degree, she’s quite unpleasant when she’s boasting like that.” 

“Mum, please don’t get into fights with your neighbours.”

“But you know,” her mother concluded, “we do manage to work things out in the end.”

“I understand, Mum. But I don’t think this will work out. We - he said a lot of cruel things. It showed me a lot about what he thought about me. That he thought I was a lesser person.” 

“Was it Ron? If it’s Ron, then we shan’t be sending him a card this year.”

“No, Ron’s all right. It was somebody else. You don’t know him.” She sat with her back to the wall, fingers twisting into her hair. “He comes from an old wizarding family and he’s done quite a lot of bad things. I don’t know. I didn’t think he’d changed, but I didn’t know he could be so - hurtful.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. Was it that Harry boy?”

“Harry’s all right, too.” She bit back a smile. “I know I should be above all this, honestly. The things he said, it’s not like I haven’t heard them before. It’s just - oh, I don’t know. I trusted him, and he was nice, and he needed my help. I lead on and it’s infuriating.” Because she did need to be the smartest in the room, and being outsmarted hurt her. All the parts where she wasn’t as good as Ron and Harry, she had always wanted to make up with books. 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about,” her mother said. “Just the other day, Ms. Davies put on a silly little act and had your father helping out in her yard. Giving someone the benefit of the doubt, once, isn’t anything horrid, even if Ms. Davies was out dancing that very night.” 

“Mum, please, please don’t get into fights with Ms. Davies. Dad calls me too, you know.” She sat with her legs straight over her bed. “It’s just, being smart is all I have.” 

“That’s not true at all, and you know it. You’re passionate, warm, and kind. Your father and I are so proud of you in every single way, especially that you work at the - House of Witches, was it?”

She smiled, her cheeks warm. 

“The Ministry of Magic, Mum.”

“Right, the Ministry.”

“It wasn’t just that, though. He said something else, and I don’t think he meant it to hurt this way, but it does.” She inhaled shallowly. “I took on the job at the Ministry to fight for house-elves rights. And, eventually, I worked to dismantle the anti-Muggle sentiments that riddle our law. Throughout wizarding history, you can see time after time where witches and wizards have killed and mutilated Muggles all for their own fun. There’s so much cruelty to fight.”

“And you’ve been doing a wonderful job, sweetie,” her mother said, a person who had never even seen any of the case law proposals she had written.

“Thank you. It’s just that, he called Muggles like cattle, and that’s stupid. Absolutely stupid.” She closed her eyes. “But sometimes, I find myself - manipulating Muggles, too. It’s nothing bad, honestly, it’s just wiping their memories so they don’t tell everybody about the wizarding world, but I feel so terrible. It really is treating them lesser, isn’t it? I - don’t know.” 

The blank looks of her parents staring at her in her living room where she had played as a child. She directed her mother to pack for Australia, standing outside the room where she’d spent summers trying to show them her grades to their befuddled smiles. While her father stood in front of her, slack and emotionless, while she told him about his new name with a trembling voice. Magic had been fun, something to master, and despite all the death she had seen, she felt the power within her wand like never before.

“You’re protecting Muttles,” her mother said soothingly. “There’s nothing wrong about that.”

“Mum,” she said suddenly. “Would you have preferred if I’d been born a Muggle?” 

She had thought about it. Her body ached from the tension, the straight line of her jaw. If she had been born without magic powers, then she could have been a normal daughter to them. She might have gone to a private school, coming home with homework that they actually understood. They’d help her with maths and literature, maybe she’d ride a little bike down the street, her parents regaling her with tales about their time during school. She had moved into this flat to get closer to them, but she still felt distant, in a world of magic that still seemed so mysterious to her after years of work. 

“No, sweetie. Your father and I are proud of you and what you do.” Her mother’s voice gained a sterner tone. “And don’t ever doubt it. You wouldn’t be able to help the people you help if you had been born a Muttle.”

“I could have spent more time with you. You could have taught me so much.”

“You learned how to sew in half an afternoon. You’ve already learned everything I could teach you.”

“The things I do, you could have bragged about them to your neighbours.”

“You think I don’t? Of course, I just say you work for the government, but that’s plenty fine with me. Ms. Davies’ daughter’s only claim is that she’s moved to Russia. You should see her posts, they’re all of her drinking and partying somewhere. Not that I condemn drinking, mind you, I know your father is eager for a few pints on his birthday.”

“Oh, Mum.” She had to smile, the knot in her chest releasing into a looser mass. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetie.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right, I don’t know how he got into my head. I just feel really foolish,” she said. “He’s handsome, but not so handsome that I’d be eager to believe anything he said. I’ve known, for a long while, that he only thinks about himself and his family. He was right, I was just fooling myself.”

“You don’t have to listen to that boy,” her mother said. “I know I was swept up back in the day with boyfriends who sweet-talked me.”

“I didn’t fancy him,” she said, and then stopped. “All right, maybe I fancied him a little, but Mum, really, I don’t want to hear about your boyfriends.”

“Hermione, I am grateful everyday that you are my daughter. Your father and I don’t always understand what you do, especially your father, really, but we know you do it well. Don’t let what your boyfriend said depress you. We know you’re brilliant.”

“No, he’s not my - “ She pinched her nose. “All right. Yes. I won’t, Mum.”

“And if the worse comes to worse, you can tell me his name,” her mother said primly. “We shan’t send him a Christmas card this year if he continues to be so cruel.”

“Thanks, Mum,” she said, hiding her smile. “I’m sure that’ll show him.”

\--

Harry ordered black pudding, Ron ordered shepherd’s pie and cornish pasties, and she ordered mashed potatoes. She didn’t know what they were drinking, but she ordered a copious amount of Firewhiskey, enough that she was aware that Harry and Ron exchanged glances across the table. 

They’d been sat closer to the bar, the furled banner of a majestic griffon beside them. Various knickknacks cluttered the top shelves, empty ceramic mugs and fancy little porcelain figurines. She drank her Firewhiskey and let the heat settle into her stomach. 

“Draco Malfoy,” she said, “is awful.”

“Right,” Ron said eagerly. The people at the bar were laughing and clapping each other on the backs, a raucous background noise.

“He’s a twat,” she said, “and I shouldn’t have wasted any time on him.” 

“I agree,” Ron said. 

Even the wooden table smelled like spilt beer and overcooked food. She dug her fork into her potatoes, eating with a vengeance, though she had also eaten half a carton of ice cream for lunch.

“He’s a moron and he can shove off,” she said. 

“Absolutely,” Ron said. “And we’re here for you.”

“I regret helping him,” she said, wrapping her hand around the glass mug. “No, I don’t, it’s to save his life. But I do regret helping him, except the part where he doesn’t die. I don’t want him to die, but I want him to suffer. But not that much, not the way he’s been suffering already. But at least a little bit. I hope he stubs his toe.” The last part was said with a vengeance, and she downed her whiskey.

“Yeah,” Ron said, warming up to the topic. “I’ve always thought they should have considered him for Azkaban for what he did in the past.”

“Hermione wouldn’t have let that happen,” Harry said with his mouth full. 

“Harry,” she hissed, while Ron said, “What?” 

Harry swallowed. 

“Right, that was a secret,” he admitted.

“No, not really a secret.” She pushed her hair back. “I mean, at the time, it was just done quietly. Doesn’t mean anything now. It’s fine, Harry. Honestly.”

“I feel left out,” Ron said. “Am I the only one to feel left out?”

“It was after the war,” Harry said. “There was talk of prosecuting Malfoy. I mean, he was a known Death Eater, and it would have been a popular move.”

“Oh, it would have never gone anywhere,” she said dismissively. “It was rubbish talk, that’s what it was. He was technically still a minor, the acts he’d done could have been argued for our side, and honestly, using that energy to go after him instead of rebuilding Hogwarts, or the Ministry, or ridding Azkaban of the Dementors, would be ridiculous. Kingsley, I mean Minister Shacklebolt, agreed with me. That was all.”

“Malfoy doesn’t know about it,” Harry said. “So when he got rid of Madame Du’Vour, it wasn’t due to any favours, I think he just wanted to do it.”

“What?” Now she joined Ron’s chorus. Harry chewed on his pudding thoughtfully.

“That was also a secret,” he admitted, mouth still full. 

“She’d been angling out of that job for ages, though,” Ron said. “I don’t think Malfoy had anything to do with it.”

“When he came to my office and asked about you, I told him about the last case you had,” Harry said. “The one you almost lost because Madame didn’t want to give you the files. The last I heard, he was throwing his name around some society to give her benefits, and she really liked the offer. He didn’t know you wanted the job, I think he was a little angry at me for not telling him. But I didn’t know you wanted the job, either.”

“Oh.” Her decision had been last-minute, and she could recall the vague disappointment when he saw her. “You could have told me, Harry.”

“I didn’t think about it,” Harry said. “Trust me, I’m not out to keep Malfoy’s secrets.” 

“Did you know that his wife had passed?” she asked. 

“No. Like I said, he didn’t talk about his wife too much,” Harry said. “But he almost seemed normal when he did mention her.” 

“Normal? Malfoy?” Ron’s eyebrows crooked into sharp angles. 

“Ginny once had tickets to another game and I just said I was taking the kids, and he said he hadn’t been to a game in a while since Asteria was sick. And he didn’t even insult me after that. I mean, he still made some snide comments about me being a Seeker, honestly the insult was a little too complicated for me to follow, but it didn’t seem too bad.”

“Astoria,” Ron said. “Honestly, I was surprised that she didn’t get an obituary.”

“Malfoy said she and her family didn’t get along,” she told him.

“I s’pose that’s one way of putting it. I never really saw her when we were at school, but I heard she and her sister used to be thick as thieves. Bit sad, really. Sometimes I think we could have really had a similar disownment of Percy,” Ron continued sadly, “to his own arse.”

“How’s he doing now?” Harry asked. 

“Oh, brilliant. Just the other day, he sat in a family dinner and had a long speech…”

Something seemed strange. School. The word school kept ringing in her ears. She toyed with her hair, glancing over the shelves of bottles, the glass glinting underneath the light. The door opened out to an enclosed area, the quaint brick walls decorated with bundles of hanging flowers, people sitting at the benches and talking in a low buzz. School. Something about school.

“He’s gotten loads better,” Ron continued, “but he still knows what buttons to push. Well, he’s family. Wait, sorry, ‘Mione. This night was supposed to be about you.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “My mum called me earlier. I’ve been feeling better about the whole thing.” 

“You shouldn’t let Malfoy get you down,” Harry said. “He says loads, but he’s not really smart.”

“No, not as clever as he thinks. I mean, I’d say he’s shrewd. I don’t think what he said was right, but I think he says a lot of things he doesn’t mean. He wants to push buttons,” she said slowly. “And he’ll do it in a textbook manner. He’ll say things that he thinks will make you angry.” Very textbook, very play-by-play. Insulting her, Muggles, and her friends. She placed down her fork.

“To be honest,” Ron said, “I don’t know how you withstood for him for so long. He still seems really unpleasant.”

“He was all right, most of the time. He wasn’t particularly cruel,” she said, “I just think he has trouble being nice.” 

“What’s the difference?” Harry looked at her over his thick glasses. 

“I don’t know. Sometimes I’d look at him and see him trying to be nice, and he’d fail spectacularly, but still. It honestly made me feel like I should do my best. And, I mean, he’d listen to me. Like, honestly listen, not the listening where I talk and you either only catch my first sentence or last sentence and pretend you understood. And yes, I know you do that,” she added at Harry and Ron’s frazzled look exchange. “He’d genuinely try to guide me. He was funny, in a Malfoy way, and I don’t know.”

He had said the words he said. He had also held her hand during a party when he didn’t need to offer, and suggested burning down an entire building to save only her. 

“He was a bit of a neat freak,” Harry admitted to Ron, turning in his seat. “I’d have things on my desk, and by the time he left, I’d have a neat row of things. I didn’t expect that from him.” 

Yet, standing on the porch and peering inside, she had seen the mess of his house. He lived in shambles while tidying the forks at a restaurant. 

“Am I missing something?” she asked out loud, perching her elbow onto the questionable table.

“A side dish?” Ron suggested. 

“A vacation,” Harry said. 

“No, not that. I think there’s something else. I mean, Malfoy lies about everything.” She closed her eyes, a slight breeze floating across the room. “He’s neat, but he lives with clutter. He said he doesn’t have an appetite, but he’ll eat something if you give it to him. It’d taken him a long while to recognise that he’d been cursed. Maybe he already had some health issues. Insomnia, aches. Does that mean something?”

“That he’s annoying,” Ron sadly concluded. 

“He got taken over by a Boggart,” Harry said. “He’s Ron’s nightmare.”

“That’s not true,” Ron said, offended. “Everybody knows my Boggart is the Chudley Cannons losing for the fifth time in a row.”

“He said something strange before we snogged,” she said.

“Oh, gross,” Harry said, while Ron said, “Not over my pasties.”

“He said,” she said loudly, ignoring them, “that the moment he knew it was Astoria who cursed him, he knew he was dead. But why would he say that? He must have suspected early into the curse. The pain would eventually kill him, but he had plenty of time to research for a countercurse. He’s arrogant enough to believe he’d find that with enough time and money.”

“He thinks it was Astoria who cursed him?” Harry seemed skeptical. 

“That’s what he said.”

“Oh.” Harry shrugged. “I guess that could happen. Maybe he liked her more than she liked him. He always had nice things to say about her, that she was brilliant. Which I think about Ginny, too, that she’s smart and nice. I always look forward to going home to her every night.” 

“I’ve said this before,” Ron said, “that I love both you and my sister, but we’re going to keep this all lovey-dovey talk very general, yeah?”

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she said into her hand. “Unless - it wasn’t Astoria. The moment he realised  _ a particular person _ had cursed him, he was dead. He didn’t fight back. He let someone spit on him and he didn’t chase after them because there was no point.”

“I hate to say it, but maybe you should assign some Aurors,” Ron told Harry. “I’ve worked cases like this before. When the victim is ill and doesn’t have an advocate, it makes everything loads harder. And we could probably figure it out, ‘Mione has done the hard part.”

“I’m sure we could, if we had the time,” she said. “It’s almost midnight, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I should get going soon. Ginny probably has her hands full right now.”

“Tom is waiting for me, too. Not to cut this short.”

“No, I should go too,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just leave now. It’s probably silly. It’s probably nothing, honestly, but just for my own conscious, I should go.”

“You’re not obligated to help the people who hurt you,” Ron said, his brow creasing into three folds. “What Malfoy said to you was cruel. He doesn’t deserve the help you’ve already given him.” 

“It’s not like that, really. I’m just worried that someone might die if I don’t help.” She halted herself. “No. No, you’re right. I want to help him. I know he’s a twat and I know I don’t have to do it, but it’s my decision to make and I’ve making it, now. Thank you for taking me out, I honestly appreciate it, but I have to go.” 

“All right,” Harry said. “Send us an owl if you need anything.” 

“Same here. We’ll always be here for you, ‘Mione,” Ron offered.

“Thank you. Good night. Love you lots,” she said, and darted out of the restaurant. She still had her coat folded in her arms despite the chilly air. In the beginning, she walked, and then she jogged, and then she was running. 

\--

Malfoy Manor, at night, was intimidating. She checked the watch on her wrist. The Apparating spot had been close enough that she’d landed a few minutes before midnight, and now had the honour of looking at the hulking manor that cut across the full moon. 

“Malfoy,” she told the white peacock statue. “It’s me, Hermione. Are you there?”

Of course she felt silly, talking to a statue in the middle of the night, but that was fairly commonplace for wizarding houses. The gates still held steadfast, so she bent closer to the peacock beak. 

“Listen, I know you don’t want to see me,” she said, “but I’m not here to argue. I just want to talk. I don’t want to go into your house, either. We can talk through the gate, or near your door. You can send an owl out. But let’s talk, yeah?”

The cold night bit at her neck and cheeks. She had shrugged on her jacket, which she hugged to herself. The moonlight cast a glossy sheen over the bushes, making it more obvious they were overgrown. 

She crept towards the gate. The house didn’t move, but it menaced. Black tiling, a dark castle build, buttressed by harsh towers. If she had her broom, she would have seen the stretches of quiet, lurking fields, the next manor a mere glimpse on the horizon. 

Though Draco gloated over her ignorance, even she wasn’t so insulated to not understand wizarding house security. She’d be in serious trouble if she tried to jump over the gate. Still, she wrapped her fingers loose around the pristine lock. 

“Come on, Malfoy,” she whispered. 

She was tempted to leave. The wind had picked up, gusting until the leaves whipped against each other. The temperature had dropped into a deep cold. She could go home and toss off her low heels. Her bed was warm and calming. She’d warm the kettle by magic and make herself a cup of tea. All that instead of standing outside a cold and dark house. 

“If you want me to say sorry, I will,” she said. “But you have to come outside. Please.” 

A bell tolled behind her. The moon’s brightness flooded the pavement in a pale light, but the darkness lurked beyond. She couldn’t see a bell tower, but she already knew the hands. 

“ _ Alohomara _ ,” she whispered. She leapt back at the sudden sparks, but the padlock remained closed. She jammed her finger against the cold steel, her wand against her fist. 

“Let me inside,” she said, and she sounded ridiculous, appealing to a house. “Please. I’m not a thief. I just need to look inside, just for a moment.” Wizarding houses. She knew about them, read about them in her books. Old and notoriously cranky, wary to thieves and burglars. The house-elves could enhance the manor’s sentience, but they had all gone. She had to appeal to the manor’s basic sense. Not the thief’s friend, but the master’s friend. 

She shoved her hand into her magically expanded purse. Without enhancement magic, the manor shouldn’t have the sentience to detect lies. But it should still understand the Malfoy crest, still imprinted on the seal that Draco had given to her at the party. She had meant to return this to him by owl, but had forgotten about it. Now she held up the small, cold wooden seal against the padlock. The crest that signified a signature, as good as a person’s word. It was an oath, it was a sentience of itself. Even if the manor despised her, it couldn’t turn away the seal. 

“Recognise me,” she murmured. Trying the gate again, she found it still locked. 

“Open,” she commanded. “Open for me. Please open. I - I am your mistress. I am the new mistress of this house, and you  _ will _ open for me.” She closed her eyes and tried to summon up the image of a perfect mistress, the ones she’d seen in her books. Their portraits stared out at her, bored and haughty. She was lying, but she had to summon the truth inside of her. She was not a thief. She was a friend. 

The gates opened. 

She darted forward before the manor could change its mind, if it could do that. The door opened for her, too, letting her into the house. 

The air was cold. The foyer was long, the fluted sconces floating against the wall. The dark lacework molding ran down the passageway. 

“Malfoy,” she called out. 

The woodboards didn’t creak beneath her footsteps, though she still kept her  _ Lumos _ wand out in front of her. Most of the doors had been opened, parted to reveal the gloomy rooms. An empty ballroom, the dull floor glimmering with an etched design and a hanging chandelier. An armoury filled with swords and shields, a room filled with paintings that gushed with silent waterfalls, desert dunes, an impenetrable lake. A bedroom with a half-made bed, a woman’s silk nightgown crumpled to the side. Empty dollhouses, covered in dust, and a workroom filled with letters. 

Every step brought her closer to the end of the hallway. In contrast to the dim rooms, the master living room seemed to be filled with moonlight. The heavy curtains had been drawn open, illuminating the darkness. As she had seen earlier, the couches appeared in disarray, an unlit fireplace, the ottomans and the piano half-covered in dark sheets. To the right, a long table stretched the length of the room, empty chairs half-pushed out. 

When she stepped inside, unlike the faint dust in the rest of the rooms, the stench of heavy blood hit her nose. She reeled back, covering her nose. 

Draco, under the veil of moonlight, sat in an armchair. He looked like a regal prince, backlit by the latticed windows, dressed in a formal black suit. Blood coated his mouth to his chin, dripping into the crevasse of what once had been his chest. His eyes had rolled back, a clouded whiteness in its wake. The snake wrapped around his neck, the tail draped on one side and the head still feasting on its meal. No longer a small garden snake, it had grown thicker than her arms, the width longer than her hand. The patterning shone under the moon, the obsidian scales topping the ivory underbelly, glittering like a thousand knives, the thin line of its eyes fixed on her. The tongue flickered out once, and the snake faded away with a low hiss.

She didn’t run. She didn’t think she ran, but she somehow had crossed the room and hovered over him. Her expertise hadn’t been fieldwork. The stench was horrid, old coins and shredded meat. The blood was scarlet and bright against the moon. She didn’t want to see, she didn’t want to feel, but she had to see how any visible rib had been splintered, the muscles torn by the tendons, the fading heart missing a chunk. 

She had done it once, and she could do it again, but her hand trembled when she tried to touch his neck for a pulse. The blood was still warm and sticky to her touch. She rested her fingers against the soft hollow of his throat.

“Draco,” she said. “Can you hear me? It’s going to be all right, I’m here now. But you’ve got to work with me. You have to stay with me. Can you do that? Please, Draco. Stay with me.” 

She still couldn’t find a pulse, not even when she switched to his wrist. 

He was still alive. He must have been still alive because when she bent her head close to his mouth, she could hear something faint. ‘Father,’ perhaps. She slammed her eyes shut and tried to breathe through her mouth. Triage. Any witch at the Ministry had to sit through the lecture. She wasn’t shaking on the floor of the Malfoy Manor. She sat in a room with Ron building an elaborate frog out of his notes and the speaker told them to triage the situation. 

Keep Draco alive. 

The Shock Spell. No, that wouldn’t be enough. A heart spell. Perhaps. Keep him alive. She didn’t know any heart spells, no defibrillator. He was going to die. In seconds, she was going to stand in a room with a corpse. She was going to vomit. Her nightmares flashed behind her eyelids. Harry, dead, Ron, dead. Smart for nothing. Smart for anything except what counted. Her friends, on the battlefield. Draco, leaning over and talking into her ear. 

She took a deep breath. No, he wasn’t going to die. She was awake. 

The app on her phone, the Latin dictionary. Heart. Something to do with hearts. If she kept his heart pumping, the healing effects of the curse might sustain the rest. She had to gamble. Even the faint whispers from him had already stopped. 

“ _ Cor… Corinthium. Corpectus. Cormenumo. Corcilliuminius.” _ One of the spells must have half-worked, or maybe she just meant it enough, felt it enough, wanted it enough, and she startled when a thin jet of electricity dashed from the tip of her wand and into his chest. A faint blue spark glowed and faded. She had to assume something was working. Triage. She didn’t have time to sit with Draco, she had to find the potions room. 

“Draco,” she said, her own heart rabbiting, “I’ll be back. Stay with me, all right? I promise, I’ll be back.” 

The potions room. She darted to the first closed door of the foyer and yanked the handle. 

She didn’t scream, but she pulled the door shut and tried to catch her breath. She recognised the grey walls of the cellar. Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured her. The dark hallway swam, the sconces now too bright. Her entire body had flinched at the memory of pain. If she opened the door again, she wondered if she would see ghosts lingering behind pillars. 

It was fine. That was fine, because Bellatrix was dead, and this was Draco’s house. No, this was her house. She was the mistress of this house, and it would work under her command. She was proud of who she was and what she did. They had won the war and were winning the battle. Now was the time for something else, not for the ghosts and cobwebs of her mind. Jutting her chin out, she pushed the door open again. 

The potions room had darkness cluttered in the corners. Most of the light came from the connected greenhouse, though the ceiling had been covered with mellow, sweet-smelling plants, fronds dangling their ropes of leaves. The beakers and flasks cast thin shadows onto the counter, the golden scales reflecting crescents. The medicine cabinet against the wall had packages of powders and labeled jars. The book she had given Draco was lying open against a window.

She was certain she could concoct the potion. Her O.W.L.s in potions, of course, had always been outstanding. She’d helped Harry study for his classes, too. But even she had to admit that Draco was probably better. He seemed better attuned to achieving the right colour, holding the heat at the right temperature, eyeing the meniscus. The time would be too much to search for all the ingredients, despite her confidence. 

Standing in the doorway, she had to imagine. Draco, returning home from their argument. He’d been the instigator, pushing her away, but he’d been upset. By his own words, perhaps by some of hers. He’d throw his jacket to the floor. Now she had to decide whether he would have accepted his fate, leaving the potions room untouched, or if he had bothered to concoct the potion. He must have paced, but he wouldn’t send an owl to anybody. He had nobody else. Perhaps he’d taken his anger out on the potions, his tidy hands quick to grind on the pestle, cleaning as he poured the liquid out to a boil.

If she gambled that Draco had finished making the potion, she now had to find it. 

The search spell wasn’t precise enough. Think. She had to think. She walked around the islands, trying to see Draco in her mind’s eye. He would have finished, or she hoped he finished, and then capped off the potion. The book had been sat by the window. He must have held the potion up against the sunlight to gauge its cloudiness. Satisfied, he would have placed the potion amongst the many others. 

She turned to the cabinets, the wall of potions. No, not amongst these. This was the last potion he thought he’d make. The potion where, if he had drank it, he would save himself and kill somebody else. He wouldn’t put that next to hiccoughing potions and cleaning solutions. Arrogant, prideful, unwilling to allow people to see him hurt. He’d take it with him. 

The living room had been a mess, a stack of books on the table and crystals lying in bowls, but she hadn’t seen the potion. That would be a cruel temptation so close to midnight, knowing he might drink it out of desperation. But he hadn’t expected anybody to intrude into his house, so this wouldn’t be kept in a safe, next to precious documents or bullards of gold, but somewhere simple.

She had passed a bedroom. 

The hallway hadn’t changed and she found the room again. The smell of old books, the undercutting of potion plants beneath. The room, unlike the others, had an active clutter. Her light couldn’t shine against the backwalls, but she saw enough. Paintings against dark wallpaper, a neat bookshelf, a hook for where an owl might have been able to perch. She assumed the nightgown on the bed had been Astoria’s, or at least carried her scent. 

A writing desk had been pushed against the wall, an heirloom type with a closed lid. The elm had been inlaid with golden design and silver handles on its drawers. She had to think that she and Draco weren’t so different. 

She opened the lid. Parchment with scribbled-out beginnings, white roses in the corner, a vial stuck behind the closed pot of ink. She grabbed the vial, her relief palpable. 

She ran, now, refusing to look at her watch. She walked on a tightrope of needing enough time to do think and racing against the clock before the curse’s healing would stop. Somewhere in the back of her mind, textbooks cautioned her against shaking vials, keeping them in cool places, making sure they had enough time to activate, but she didn’t care.

His eyes had closed, finally. She grabbed Draco’s jaw, pouring the potion down his throat. 

He didn’t swallow. 

“ _ Draco _ ,” she said. “You have to take this potion. I don’t want you to die, all right? Just swallow it. Please.” She didn’t think he could hear her. His signs of life had faded away, his warmth a residue. But she knew he must be alive because she refused to accept the alternative. Hot waves passed over her while she stared down at his unmoving throat, the potion that had splashed onto her fingers. He looked like a statue and she burned from the inside out. 

“I know that you’re sad. I know that you might not even think you’re worth living. I’m sorry that you’re alone. But you have to take this potion, Draco, you  _ must _ . I’ve felt alone, too, because I love Ron and Harry, but they don’t always understand what it’s like to be Muggleborn, what it meant to survive. I’ve felt guilt, too. That I’ve outlived so many good people. I look at Teddy and think about his parents all the time, and I feel horrid, wishing they had been selfish, when they made this world a better place. And I know. I know you think all your enemies have become your only friends.” She blinked hard, trying to hold back the prickle of her eyes. “But I’m your enemy, too, Draco. I’m your friend, and I want you to be alive.” 

She dropped her thumb against the bloodied corner of his mouth. 

“You said love was painful, but it’s not all about that. I don’t think you actually want to hurt me. And I know I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll show you something nicer, I promise, but you have to stay with me. Please. You’re right, Draco, I can’t save everyone.” She blinked, hard. “But please, what would it take to prove that I want to help you?” 

The proof of her pain, the fruit of her labour, the treasure of her past. She knew Lucius had tried to ban the story from Hogwarts, citing the Fountain of Fair Fortune as promoting Muggle-wizard relations. But the fairy tale had still been told, despite the attempts at censorship, because it had an ethereal charm. The treasure was not in the water, she knew that, but as she watched Draco slowly swallow down the potion, she had to imagine what it felt like to cup her hands into the pure fountain and feel the cool water trickle down her throat. 

Nothing seemed to happen when he finished the potion. She shoved back her hair, holding the empty vial at the moonlight. 

Then a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. 

She yelped, dropping the glass and stumbling backward at Draco’s convulsions. Blood poured from his mouth, his eyes still clouded, hand gripped hard against the armchair. She grabbed his forearm to steady him, but stumbled against the table when something ripped from his chest. 

She couldn’t get a good look at it, something dark and wicked, revulsion. This was the run-off from murder scenes, this was the bezoar of hatred, unclean and wretched, what she saw in wizards’ eyes when they called her names. It hovered in the air, a mass of dark colors with flashes of ivory, and then shot out like an arrow. She covered her ears when all the glass in the room broke with a sound like rushing water, shards collapsing onto the wooden floor in clouds of fine dust. 

The silence afterwards felt like a vacuum. 

She sat down, numb, on an adjoining table. A stack of books had been piled high behind her like a throne, and she rested her back against that. 

Gallivanting around Hogwarts had been one thing. Now she had work tomorrow. She smelled like Firewhiskey, the palms of her hand had been covered in blood, and she had just killed somebody. The moral implications of that were numbing, so she focused on the thought of comforting paperwork. The wind blew through the manor, clearing out some of the stale dust motes. A strong gust billowed out the dark green curtains, their tassels dragging over the shattered glass. 

“Do you have a kitchen?” She looked down the dark hallway. “A proper kitchen, I mean.”

“Yes.” 

“I like cooking with my hands,” she said. “Maybe it’s the same way you like potions. Magic is wonderful, and of course I can boil the water quickly, but sometimes I like having something to touch. I can’t say I’m good at cooking, really. Ron did more of that when we were together. He had family recipes.”

“I appreciate your tea.” 

“I do make good tea,” she said. 

“I tried to cook for myself, once. Not too long ago.” Draco’s voice beside her was hoarse and raspy. The broken glass glittered like a lost sea. 

“How did it turn out?”

“Not very well.”

“You should give it another go.”

“It wasn’t particularly enjoyable. Came out burnt.”

“That could be considered flavour.”

“It felt ridiculous, the whole trial. Standing there with a burnt crisp.” 

“Did you try it?”

“No, of course not. Why would I eat garbage?” 

“I think they say garbage in, garbage out.” She half-smiled at his chuffed laugh, a wheezy sound that sounded waterlogged. 

“I suppose I could have eaten it. But I had become aware, increasingly, that I was alone with burnt ruins. My wife, gone. My father, suffering a breakdown. My mother, disappointed. I knew I couldn’t dispel the curse if it meant killing the last friend I had. Not that I thought of all that when I was throwing out that garbage. I suppose I just looked down and realised that I had nothing in my hands.”

The moon had a dreamlike veneer cast over the sparkling glass. She reached out to find his hand, still staring out the open window, wind bringing in the smells of fresh grass. His hand was still cold, but she curled her fingers over his, and didn’t let go. 

\--

A little ways from St. Mungo’s, a park sat wedged between two department shops. A wizard or witch would have to enter through a brick wall, but they’d be greeted with a private area of grass and a perimeter of holm oaks. Neville had spoken of the place warmly. She could see why. Even in the depths of winter, the Healers, robed in lime-green, moved and talked with one another along the pathway. Some children played in the grass, hoisting their toy broomsticks behind them. 

“I brought you some tea,” she said. She had gotten herself tea, too, in the carrier tray. The order had taken longer than she had anticipated, having stood behind a wizard with cornstalks for ears and a woman with fully-webbed flippers. 

She did stand up from the thin metal bench to help Draco sit down. He still had to use his cane, and the short walk from the hospital seemed to have worn him out. As he bent down, a thin necklace with a silver ring slipped from his neck. She couldn’t recall the last time he’d worn his wedding ring on his finger. Perhaps not since the party. 

“Did you poison this?” Draco sipped the tea with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. 

“Yes.” She wrapped her hands around the corrugated sleeve. “How’s Goyle?” 

“They say he won’t make the night. He seems to be suffering.” Draco stared at the line of trees. “You would think that would please me.”

“No. I wouldn’t think that.”

“Did you have any trouble with the Ministry?”

“Harry took care of it. Well, I took care of it, and then Harry submitted the paperwork under his name. It’s really nothing new. I am grateful that nobody had been near Goyle when the curse returned. A lot more people could have been hurt.” 

“But you didn’t know if there were other people at the time.”

“No, I didn’t.” And even if it was Goyle, dooming him still haunted her. She had half-wondered if she’d had nightmares that night, but after the round of calls with Harry, she had simply collapsed into her bed in a dreamless sleep. 

“I didn’t think he had that in him,” Draco said. “He was always the stupider of the two.” 

Even she had to admit the plot had been unexpected. Goyle’s probationary release from Azkaban had involved doing work at the cemetery, where he had placed a curse on Astoria’s gravestone. She supposed it could have been construed as clever. Probationary release meant any magic he’d done would have been scrutinised, so he’d been unable to curse Draco directly. He must have settled for an obscure stone curse, something passed on by his family, on something he had known Draco would touch. 

She thought that part was needlessly cruel to both Astoria and Draco. That did, however, fit into everything she had known about Goyle, sentenced due to his eagerness with the Cruciatus Curse. Apparently Azkaban had been difficult for him due to his brawls with the other inmates. Though she hadn’t been part of the committee, she suspected the release had measured whether Goyle would have actually survived another few years in there more than fears of recidivism. 

“Do you know why he did it?” 

“No. I truly don’t.” His features turned grim under the cloudy day. “I suppose he may have been resentful. Rotting away in a cell while I moved on. I didn’t think him capable of such intricate thoughts.”

“You did say you talked to him,” she recalled. “He didn’t say anything to you?”

“I did most of the talking. That was how it usually worked with him. I did ask him about Azkaban, mentioned some of the society work I’d done. He didn’t seem interested.” 

She had never really talked to Goyle. In her mind, she still imagined the brutish boy, the type who never got the excellent grades, but still clodded through every class. He was the archetype of the boarding school bully, a lackey that followed behind Draco with a nasty temperament. Still, she curled her fingers over the bench slats. She might not have liked him, but she could also imagine them in the Slytherin drawing room, Goyle and Crabbe listening while Draco talked with a haughty air. 

With everything she’d known about Goyle, finding a motive still seemed difficult. He may have been resentful of Draco, but he’d also been a loyal follower for years. Time spent staring at the prison walls, though, could have changed him. She feared that rumours may have reached Goyle about how Draco’s ‘society work’ had removed an obstacle to pro-Muggle causes, combined with his infrequent visits to the Ministry. Something could have started in his mind, slow and steady, dripping like sludge. 

“You did say that some curses started out as beneficial,” Draco said indifferently. “Do you think the curse could have gotten corrupted? That the intent had been different?” 

She had never played with a toy broom as a child, and still wasn’t as good with broomwork as Harry. A young girl climbed onto the toy broomstick and tumbled to the grass, her pigtails sticking from the field. She immediately grabbed onto the handle to climb onto it again. Her smile stretched across her face, her friends laughing so hard that the peals echoed throughout the park. 

“No,” she said. “He wanted to kill you.” 

Draco took a drink from the paper cup. She did so as well. At the counter, she’d ordered the same drink for the two of them, since she didn’t know his tastes. He didn’t seem to dislike it, though his mouth had been drawn into a firm, neutral line. 

“How did you know it wasn’t Astoria? The timing was right,” she said. 

“That wasn’t Astoria. She was thoughtful and brilliant,” he said. “Like I said, I grew up with discipline. She grew up with freedom. Of course, I did suspect her. But I had also chosen what accessories to bury with her. She was too smart to gamble on my choices.”

“You should trust people more.”

“I was cursed by my last friend,” Draco said. “Forgive me if I’m justified.” 

“Did you consider Goyle a friend?” 

Draco sunk into quiet thought. 

Though it was hard to tell with the weather, she suspected an early winter had arrived. When she breathed, a thin trail of steam drifted into the air. Even the passing Healers had layered robes, their wizenly beards doubling as insulation. While the children burned with energy, their nearby parents had bundled into thick coats and jackets. The children would be enrolled in Hogwarts one day, she suspected. They’d enter the Great Hall in wonderment, flocked together yet apart. Their Houses would be decided and it would all be exciting and thrilling, to wear the red robes and feel the embroidery of the lion beneath their fingertips, and then they would grow older and find themselves so much more complicated than bold concepts. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. 

“You should be.” She stared down at the white lid of her cup. “Sorry about what?”

“Everything. Calling you a Mudblood. Being a bully. Trying to sell out you and your friends like roast beef. Attacking you and your friends. The list does continue.” 

“This is honestly shocking. Can I record this? I’d like to use this for my ringtone.” 

“I’m being serious.” 

“I know.” She smiled awkwardly. “I thought it’d feel more satisfying. I’ve had plenty of daydreams where you say things like that. I’ve also had some where I sock you in the face.”

“I suppose I’d allow a punch,” he said slowly. 

“No, honestly, I couldn’t. I don’t want to ruin your pretty face.” 

“That truly cuts me to the deep.” 

“I’m not trying to insult you,” she said, puzzled. “I do think you’re pretty.” She had to laugh at the befuddlement that arrived on his face, the way his mouth parted to say something, before he abandoned that to turn away. 

“Oh, Draco.” She laced her fingers around the waxen cup. “Well, I can’t say it isn’t nice to hear.”

“You were right,” he said eventually, “about the fact that I was weak. That I am weak. I do always look to save myself, first, even at the cost of others. I wanted to protect my family, to make my father proud. But my greatest redeeming quality is that when I looked at someone I hated, I was too cowardly to kill them.”

“You were trying to make me angry, and I was angry,” she said. “I lashed out. I said things I didn’t mean.”

“They were true.” 

“They were angry.” She grabbed a strand of her hair, twirling it around her finger. “I can’t tell you what to think about yourself, but honestly, I think you’ve changed.”

“People don’t change,” he sneered. “They stay the same, but put on different faces.” 

“I think I’ve changed.”

“You?” Draco looked at her, withering. “You’re the same goody two-shoes as ever.” 

“People aren’t  _ things _ . Not immobile statues. We do grow, change. I mean, of course, I do encounter some of the same insecurities that plague me, time and time again,” she admitted. Looking back on her beaming photos, she was sometimes struck with a mix of affection and nostalgia. She had been young and raw, bristling with self-conscious righteousness. Sometimes it ached to reflect on how she’d been before the war, someone with shining eyes and a book clutched to her chest. Nothing she couldn’t solve with a quick think, a fast answer, a dictionary-perfect definition. 

“There’s no magic fix to some issues,” she said, the image of a trickling fountain in her mind. “But we are the decisions that we choose to make. I think that I’m different, and I quite like the person I’ve become.” Not so raw, at least. Using that frantic energy less to protect herself and more to protect others. Learning to express her compassion, relate to her parents, open herself up to her friends. Sometimes she grew so focused on the daily tasks, driving herself mad with the pedantic letterings of the Wizengamot, and then she was sitting on a park bench, looking at the wide field, the thicket of green trees, the clouds slumbering above, whole, with somebody beside her.

“Not everybody can be you,” Draco said. 

“I hope not, I would hate to work with myself,” she said. “But honestly, Draco. I don’t think you’re weak because you can’t  _ kill _ . If anything, I think your weakest point is that you don’t ask for help.” 

“I had nothing with which to bargain.” 

“That’s not how friendship works.” 

“So you’re calling yourself my friend?” 

“I don’t know what I’d call our relationship, but I do have some thoughts.” She glanced at where he had left his hand curled in his lap. “Did you get back any feeling in your fingers?” 

Draco seemed startled from a rumination, but he stretched out his fingers and curled them against his palm. The Healer had said the damage wasn’t expected to be permanent, though she couldn’t rule that out. Long-term trauma had a myriad of effects, though the news hadn’t seemed to disturb Draco. He still seemed exhausted and stricken, but more mournful than ill. She supposed that was a change. 

“Nearly all of it,” he said, clenching his fingers into a fist. “Why?”

“No reason.” She slid her hand over his. Though she suspected this was quite a display, they had been settled into the quieter end of the park. She squeezed his hand and took another sip of her warm tea. 

“I suppose I’ll send an owl for my father and mother,” Draco said eventually. “If they knew about you, I’m sure they’d respond. Maybe even return, if they’re well enough.” 

“Lucius won’t be happy.”

“No. But he can’t disown me if I’ve already inherited the Manor.” His sneer turned into a somberness. “I’ve inherited much from my father. Not all of it - ideal.” 

“I suppose not. We can only try our best with what we give to others.” A cycle of pain, changed, perhaps. She always did enjoy visiting Harry and Ginny. Their children were argumentative, squabbling, hot-headed, and a family. She had to wonder if they’d grow up and see their parents as humans, too, and what they would think of them. Perhaps the same way she viewed her parents now, with unbridled love, and doing the best they can. And very good dentists. 

“You know,” she said, “I have thought about what it’d be like. If Muggles knew about witches and wizards. Magic.” 

“If we didn’t Obliviate them, you mean.” 

“Yeah.” She flexed her fingers. “I think there is a fear. That they’d kill us, mistrust us. But all we can do is try to do better and be better. Make it a better world. Be good people.” 

“I’m not a good person,” he said curtly. Draco always embodied such arrogance. Even in his confession, he had a faint sneer, a revolted misery, pride in his suffering. 

“I like the decisions that you make,” she said. “I’m trying to be a better person, too, you know.”

“You’re different. You’ve always had your heart in the right place, or some rot like that. You’re already  _ accomplished _ ,” he said, like an insult. “There’s a reason why they’re called the Unforgivable Curses, they’re unforgivable. I can pretend all I want, but I don’t deserve anything from you. You said it yourself. There’s nothing good inside me.”

“That’s rubbish,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t control whether someone forgives you or not. I’ll listen to Ron and Harry’s oppositions, but the fact that I’ve forgiven you is already a fact. I make my own decisions and you don’t get a say in that.” 

He wasn’t looking at her, focused on the distant trees. His angry misery was killing her, the way he tried to be unreadable with the pain in his eyes. She put her tea down, running her fingers over his forearm in consolation. His jacket was thinner than usual, the gnarls of the scar tissue more apparent. They felt hard and knotted until she rested a pinky against his thready pulse, the softness of his wrist. 

“I have seen inside of you, Draco,” she said softly. “You have a human heart, the same as mine. Isn’t that enough?”

He didn’t say anything for a long while. She didn’t either, letting the silence steep between them. The day was nice, fresh air without a strong breeze. From a distance, a group of witches joined the paveway, unsteady like the newly healed, reaching out to one another. The parents were calling for their children with their abandoned coats and hats. The winter morning held everything in a gentle, quiet light, an untouched whisper. 

Draco tightened his grip on her hand. 


	5. exit, pursued by a bear

“That wasn’t so bad,” she cajoled. 

“It was terrible.” Draco couldn’t escape the hold she entangled around his elbow, but he kept his back straight and gaze forward to where the streetlamps scattered across the walkway. 

Though admittedly early for a ‘meet the parents,’ she had invited Draco to her father’s birthday party out of etiquette and had been surprised at his acceptance. He had behaved quite well, all things considered. The first time her mum said ‘muttle,’ he had locked eyes with her across the cramped living room. Her dad, unfortunately, had taken a fancy to Draco’s uptight manners, insisting on showing him the Shed. They’d disappeared for a while, and when they returned, Draco had almost hid behind her. 

The whole event just reminded her of leashing a prideful puppy, the way he seemed on the constant verge of saying something belittling, only to obediently tell her mum that no, he didn’t need another slice of cake, and suffering through when he’d been cut another slice anyway. She covered her mouth with a napkin at his exhausted expression towards a bowl of chips, his fingers twitching to a fork. However, the only time he really looked like he was going to magic himself out of the fireplace was when she insisted that the present was a joint gift to her dad, Draco’s idea, really, and it’d been an enormous set of inflatable dentures. 

“We could have gotten a better gift,” Draco said.

“I picked it out myself, you should be grateful I put your name on it.”

“A paperweight. A quill set. A watch.”

“They can hang it from their ceiling, it’ll be a conversation piece.” 

“There’s no such thing as conversation pieces,” Draco growled, “only poor taste.” 

“Oh, don’t be sour. I’m letting you stay at my place, aren’t I?” The party had run late, so she’d made up an excuse for him to stay the night. That being said, it wasn’t too late, given that the pubs still had milling crowds, and Draco had recovered enough to abandon the cane and only occasionally lean against her. She wrapped her hair around her finger. Her invitation had been transparent, but his quiet acquiescence let her feel a bit flushed. 

“Speaking about invitations, I did receive a letter about a ceremony next week,” Draco said. “An old wizarding tradition, the Glizengan. Like marriage renewals, except there’s more wine and burning involved. Would you like to attend?” 

“Oh, yes. That sounds fascinating. I’ll have to find a book about that,” she said. “I’ve always liked a good wedding. Older ones had such interesting rituals.” 

“Research for marrying Weasley?” 

“Not particularly. We never particularly talked about it, but it was a thought.” A crowd of drunken wizards passed by, laughing and tumbling on each other, so she squeezed closer to Draco to allow them to pass. “It’s not good to plan out the future too strictly, but I wouldn’t have been opposed to a winter wedding. Traditional, I think, but perhaps on the smaller side. We’d have to get pre-nuptials, of course, look into joint finances. If my husband mostly did business at home, tending to old accounts, ledgers, family finances, then perhaps he could look after our children.”

“You thought a lot about marrying him.” Draco sounded sullen.

“No, not very much. Not about him.” She rested her head against his shoulder. 

They’d reached closer to the end of the street, where passing through the brick wall would lead them onto the Muggle road. Most of the shops had closed for the night, the reveling and cheers behind them. A cauldron-shaped wooden signboard creaked in the light wind, their reflection on dark displays of train sets and books with wands on the covers and floor-length robes and glass jars with little corks. 

“Thank you for coming tonight. I mean it.”

“I didn’t have any particular plans,” he said. “Even I can denigrate myself for a few hours.”

“No need to be bitter that Harry and Ron didn’t attend.”

“Even as a joke, that’s insulting.” 

“They do send their regards, if you can count regards with a bit of flavour.” She smiled in the dark. “Honestly, if you ever wanted to hang with Harry - pub crawl, something like that - I think he’d say yes. If you wanted.” 

“I don’t want that at all.”

“He’s freed up some time, too. I can make arrangements.” Harry had finally, after some beleaguered labour, chosen the design for the new unity fountain. The waterworks would be tiered, a simple and clean flow, with magical creatures joining a wizard at the top. It’d be a relief to finally escape the constant construction, though she also looked forward to hearing the quiet rush of water, seeing her faint reflection in the clear water. 

“You have everything figured out,” Draco said, resigned. 

“No, not at all. I’m not perfect, you know. Harry’s still better than me at riding a broom or summoning a Patronus.”

“I don’t know why you’re so attached to that. For one thing, I don’t believe Potter could be better than you at anything.”

“That’s just because you love me.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Draco sneered. “Besides, you summon a Patronus just fine.” 

“I’ve practised,” she said, pulling out her wand from her bag, “so maybe I am better than Harry, now. It’s all in the pronunciation and the flick of the wrist. And the strength of your happiest memory - “

“When a professor said you were absolutely correct and a star student?”

“I decline to answer.” She darted a quick look around, and seeing nobody close enough to spot her, began drawing her wand around in circles. She liked using a conglomerate of happiest memories. Perhaps that was why she was slower than Harry, because she liked to draw on so much. Going out for ice lollies with her parents, Harry and her huddled in the dormitories, Ron’s laughter when they’d gone out to the gardens, her hand held when the stars were songs. 

“ _Expecto Patronum_.” The familiar shape of her otter emerged from her wand, smoky wisps at the feet, the colour of snow, melting into the night. The sensation always resembled her heart expanding, like she truly was seeing the world with kinder eyes. “Now you try.”

“Why would I do that?” He looked at her, withering, but she wasn’t deterred. 

“I said I’d teach you, didn’t I? It won’t hurt, I promise.” 

“You do know,” he said with a faint sneer, “that even though you and your little friends can cast the spell like children running amuck in a candy shop, it actually is a quite complicated spell. It used to be that only the worthy could cast it, the rare few.” 

“I’d say the tongue sticks to the roof of the mouth, a little bit of rolling for the Expecto,” she said, trying to open her mouth to show him. She inched closer, flicking her tongue. He gave her a long-suffering look, and then kissed her. 

She blinked when he stepped back, pulling his wand out with indifference. 

“A happy memory,” he said, dry. “It’s part of the spell.” 

“Very romantic,” she said. “You taste like my mum’s sponge cake.” 

“You’re awful.” His mouth twitched. She really did think he was getting better at smiling, one step at a time. His circle motion looked like a deflated balloon, his pronunciation of “ _Expecto Patronum_ ” drawled and bored. She already began her speech about hand motions and rolling the tongue again when a thin white smoke emerged. The form glowed like a pale moon, smoke eluding most of the shape save for a snout and a pair of fine wings before it dissipated into the cold night. 

“Oh,” she said, hands clapping. “That was close, you should try again!” When her excitement wasn’t reciprocated, she peeked at Draco. 

He had clamped a hand over his mouth, his brow troubled, hand dangling with his wand. 

She wasn’t as good as Harry and Ron in consolation, even though they were coarse and bumbling. She was a person of knowledge, who needed things fixed and figured out. Thoughts fluttered through her mind, analyses of the way his eyes crinkled, upset and wet, the way he withdrew into himself. She analysed herself, the way she drew forward, peering at him, how she didn’t know what to say. Perhaps she should clear her throat, suggest another trial for another day. A quick quip wouldn’t be unwelcome, he probably wouldn’t mind the illusory guise. She didn’t know what was wrong and didn’t know how to fix it.

“Oh, Draco,” she said softly, and his eyes darted to her, tense. She was surprised when he took her hand and pulled her closer. He wrapped his arms around, her face burying into his shoulder. 

“Why do you look sad?” he mumbled. She laughed, startled. She didn’t know what she looked like in his eyes. A little disheveled after an afternoon and evening’s worth of parties, shadowed by the streetlamp. She wrapped her arm around his waist, where he had a solidity and a fragility. 

“Because you look sad,” she said, drawing back enough to plant a hand on his cheek. “So tell me how I can help.” She was far away from Hogwarts, from the Great Hall of magic and the Room of Requirements, the tapestries and moving stairs, the hidden basements and high towers, but looking at the way he looked at her, proud and broken and adoring, she somehow was reminded all over again of the time she’d stepped foot off the boat onto the rocky shore, gazing at the castle ahead of her.


End file.
